


Grounded

by TheFangedGoblin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Rating: NC17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:00:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFangedGoblin/pseuds/TheFangedGoblin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of chapters written about the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson from the beginning to after Sherlock fakes his death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for seasons one and two. This story was actually written almost exactly a year ago, so technically there are no spoilers for season 3, though it does take place during that time.

John stumbled out of the cab a little tipsy from the wine he had at dinner along with the excitement he had at the thought of getting serious with Sarah. He was smiling when he walked through the door, greeted Mrs. Hudson warmly, and continued up to the flat.

His smile faded, however, when he stepped into the room and found Sherlock exactly where he had left him hours ago. The other man was seated stiffly in the armchair with his violin lying slack against his side, wearing a look of almost painful concentration on his face.

Sherlock was a million miles away and John wondered if his friend was even aware he had returned.

"Are you alright?" the doctor asked carefully.

There was a moment of hesitation as Sherlock looked John over judgingly. He did not like the deductions he was getting from his slurred speech and the barely noticeable hair from Sarah's head on the shoulder of his jumper. His lips were reddened by wine and kissing and he smelled like a bar.

John shifted uncomfortably under his friend’s diagnosing gaze. It was like being trapped under glass in front of his microscope.

"Fine," Sherlock snapped quickly before he lifted his violin to make the most god awful screeching noise he could with it.

John winced painfully at the retched sound and quickly covered his ears. "God... why do you purposefully make agonizing noises with that thing? Are you trying to wake the dead?" he protested, but he didn’t expect Sherlock to respond. "Have you moved at all since I left? What are you thinking about?"

"How was your date?" Sherlock asked accusingly, ignoring John's other questions. He did sit the violin back down, but only because he didn't want to run John off now that he finally had him back. The truth was that he hadn't moved since John left to go out. In fact, he was still in the same pajamas and robe he had been wearing for three days straight.

"Fine. It was fine," John told him just as shortly. He was aware of how much Sherlock disapproved of his dates, especially if they went well. He never asked, but he assumed it was because Sherlock thought it was a giant distraction from their work. Or perhaps he thought John was pathetic for attempting to make meaningful connections with other human beings. "You haven't left the flat for days, have you?" John asked, staring at his clothes or lack thereof.

"I don't have a case. What other reason would I need to leave the flat?" Sherlock asked resentfully, hoping to derail his friend’s line of questioning. "You went out with Sarah again. I thought she learned from your last date that you weren't a good match."

John gave an exasperated sigh. Sherlock was trying to ruin this for him and he was too much of a sucker not to let him. "And why wouldn't we be a good match?"

"Because she's boring and she’s only dating you because you are readily available to her," Sherlock answered as if it were obvious. "That combined with the fact that her parents are in town and she wants to show off that she snagged someone."

"That's not-" John began, but stopped when he realized that yes, her parents were in town. How on Earth had Sherlock known? He chased any ideas out of his mind, afraid of ending any pleasant mood he might have had and thus only giving Sherlock what he wanted. "Nevermind. If you allowed yourself to date, you would understand," he muttered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his blogger. "Dating is boring and there is no point to it. If I wanted to listen to a woman talk about who's who on the telly, I would go downstairs and have tea with Ms. Hudson."

"Perhaps you should go have tea with her. When is the last time you've eaten?" John asked, though there was no anger in his tone. There was no use taking anything Sherlock said too personally, even when he meant it to be. "Have you really never been with a woman? Or a... man?" he asked tentatively.

Sherlock let out a frustrated breath and picked up his violin, intent on making it scream.

John panicked and interrupted him before he could land the first piercing note. "If you are so bored, Sherlock, then you can always find a case. There are plenty out there. You should have a look at the blog," he insisted, holding back from taking the instrument and smashing it into pieces. At least he wasn't putting bullets in the wall. "Please, let me help you find one."

For reasons Sherlock did not fully understand, he always responded in the same peculiar way when John said please. He allowed his violin to rest at his side before glaring at John. "Four days, Eight hours, forty-two minutes… then I can get a case."

"What... why do you have to wait?" John asked, getting the feeling that he was missing something very obvious, and once again, feeling stupid. Perhaps Sherlock was doing it on purpose. "Are you... on lock down or something? Is that why you haven't left this room and have been curled up in a ball of self destructive misery for three days?" he asked, and when he got tired of standing, he leaned heavily against the wall. Perhaps he had had a little too much wine.

Lock down was a good word for it. "Mycroft didn't appreciate the Baskerville incident," he told him without further explanation. "Don't tell him I drugged you," he added suddenly, pointing the violin bow at John.

At the mention of that incident, John again became irritated. "Yes, I'm still rather put off by that, Sherlock, you scared me to death," he glared, remembering it all too well. "You remember how frightened you were when the same happened to you? I could not believe you would do that to me.”

He would forgive him, though. He always did. Eventually.

"It was an experiment and I explained why it had to be done," Sherlock defended himself.

"It didn't have to be done, Sherlock, and I am not your lab rat to play with," John insisted, trying to hold onto whatever dignity he thought he had lost that night. "Why didn't you tell me earlier that you were trapped here? I could have talked to Mycroft-"

"Do not talk to Mycroft!" Sherlock interrupted, practically jumping out of his seat to tower over John. "Promise me you won't call him."

John instinctively backed away from Sherlock, but being drunk and already against a wall, it only resulted in a loss of footing and he righted himself just in time not to fall down. "Why? Why shouldn't I talk to him?" he provoked, wishing just for once he could know what went on in his friend’s mind.

"If you call him and tell him it's driving me mad to be stuck here in this flat then he will have won," Sherlock explained impatiently, but his frustrated posture changed when John swayed. "Do you need to lie down?" he asked suddenly with something that actually sounded like concern.

John felt stupid again. He should have remembered how awfully over sized Sherlock's pride was. But his second question threw him off. He shot his friend a nervous glance that he sometime did when he felt confused and exposed. "No..." he began. "Well, yes, maybe," he reconsidered.

"You didn't sleep well last night and you went out tonight. You should go to bed before you fall over," Sherlock observed, reaching out to grasp John's arm as if he was afraid the other man would do just that.

For a moment, John was speechless from both the physical contact Sherlock had so unhesitantly initiated and the tone of his voice that was far too much like concern and worry. "You're kidding me, right? How long has it been since you've slept?" he tried to turn the tables safely back onto his friend. "And eaten, and... showered."

Sherlock let go of John's arm and looked down at it as if he wasn't sure what it was doing there. "I don't need to eat or sleep as much as you do. You know this."

John's arm ached where Sherlock had touched it but not from pain or discomfort. That was when it dawned on him. The crumpled slackness and dirtiness of his clothes, though he hadn't slept in them... the flash of concern in his eyes that came as quickly as it went... the odd way he was speaking. "You... you're depressed," he realized out loud, with nothing other than amazement in his drunken eyes.

The doctor regretted saying it out loud almost immediately. Damn the wine. It always did make him lose his filters. "What?!" Sherlock exclaimed. "I'm not depressed. I don't get depressed!"

John looked down to the ground if only to stabilize himself and prevent from really falling over. "It's alright, Sherlock... to be depressed. But... why? Did something happen?" he asked timidly.

"I'm fine!" Sherlock repeated.

John leaned against the wall again and remembered his patience. "When are you going to realize, Sherlock, that I am no ordinary person to you? I am your friend. At least, I'd like to think so... and you don't have to convince me that you are not human. Now tell me if anything happened other than the whole... no-case-while-you-are-grounded business."

"I'm not grounded!" Sherlock shouted before calming himself by running a frustrated hand through his messy hair.

"Alright," John agreed with a sigh, because it was no use arguing. "Do you mind if I sleep in here tonight, then? My bed is lumpy," he asked casually, walking slowly over to the couch and tried not to collapse onto it. He did anyway. And although it was no lumpier than his bed, he knew he would be an idiot to leave Sherlock unattended while he was like this. And he was certainly not going to cause problems by admitting that out loud.

As usual, John's calmness stopped the tirade of thoughts that bombarded Sherlock's mind and brought him back to the here and now. "You hate the couch," Sherlock pointed out as he took back his seat in the arm chair closest to John.

John smiled and grabbed a blanket. "I hated it when I had my bum leg. Now I think it's quite nice," he lied, knowing that Sherlock would see right through it and not caring one bit. "Are you just going to sit there all night?"

"Yes... problem?" Sherlock responded shortly, pulling his legs up into the chair like an overgrown five year old.

"Not at all," John lied again. He could handle being under Sherlock's watchful hawk-like gaze while awake, but not so much while he was passed out drunk on the sofa. And that was when it hit him. "I suddenly... don't feel too well," he whispered, only to himself, because he had a habit of talking to himself.

Sherlock's eyes widened when he heard what John said and he stood up to grab a trash can and shove it into his hands.

John pushed the can away in annoyance. "I'm not going to vomit, Sherlock," he sighed. "It's my head. I'll be fine," he insisted, though it was not entirely true. Yes, his head harbored most of the pain, but his stomach didn't feel perfect, either. "I just had a bit too much. Won't happen again."

"That's what they always say. You know, alcoholism runs in families and with your sister being the way she is, you should take better care," Sherlock said, hitting on a nerve he knew was especially sensitive in his friend.

John's eyes opened and narrowed at Sherlock, hurt by his accusations. "You think I'm going to become an alcoholic like my sister? I am nothing like her, and just because I had a bit to drink on a date tonight does not make me an alcoholic!" he shouted. "You are just... just jealous, somehow! You cannot stand to see me happy!"

"That's not why I'm jealous!" Sherlock yelled back, but regretted it immediately.

John sat up a little unsteadily, his eyes glazed over as he tried to read Sherlock. He had just admitted to being jealous, but of what exactly, if not John's happiness? "Then what's wrong, Sherlock?" he asked again softly.

"Nothing..." Sherlock began, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. "You just go off with these stupid girls and ignore me for hours on end and I don't like it."

John blinked. "I..." he stuttered, not understanding. "You cannot expect me to not go out on dates or be friends with other people just because I have become... your partner," he tried to rationalize. "Listen, if you wish for me to stay with you while you are trapped here, I won't go anywhere," he offered him, not knowing what else to say. He pitied him the same way he might pity a wild animal in a cage far too small.

"Don't do that, John. Don't pity me," Sherlock growled.

John lowered his gaze like he often did when he felt exposed. He felt frustration quickly rise up inside of him. "It’s not because I pity you. You're jealous because you want me all to yourself? So you can experiment on me and drug me and make me fetch you tea and send texts for you? Because without me, you only have the skull?" he demanded.

Sherlock looked away. "You are more than that to me, John. Moriarty figured it out long before I did. Why do you think he took you in the first place?"

John sighed. He felt sometimes like he was Sherlock's keeper, and yes, his one and only partner in crime. His only friend and ally. That was what he assumed he meant. "Yes, I recall that pretty clearly. It still does not make sense why you would sit here and starve yourself and sulk in your chair. Even machines need rest."

"I will rest when I'm dead. I need a distraction. Distract me," Sherlock demanded.

"I thought I was," John answered. "And what exactly do you need a distraction from?"

"Boredom."

"You know, you could just speak to your brother like a normal human being and work something out. After all, you need to be able to do your job," John slurred as he lay back down on his back and shrugged.

"I did talk to him and now I'm stuck here," Sherlock explained.

"Alright, then," John shrugged again, giving up on the impossible task of entertaining Sherlock when he simply refused to play along. And without another word, he settled down on the couch again and closed his eyes. A moment later, he shifted uncomfortably and restlessly.

Once he thought John was asleep, Sherlock fetched a thicker blanket and placed it carefully over him in another odd, random, and strangely affectionate gesture. His hand then gently smoothed his messy blonde hair out of his face.

Once he was sure Sherlock could not see, the drunk doctor opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling as if he would find all the answers there. The ghost of Sherlock’s touch still ached on his skin. He knew that the only reason he did not react was because he was frozen in shock. He felt as though he were just given a new mystery to solve, but one he had to work out on his own.

Finally, however, John could contemplate it no more and he passed out under the blanket.

***

Even as the sun began to rise, Sherlock was still seated sideways in the chair across from John, his long legs swung over the arm as he thrilled from the effects of the drug.

With Sherlock's mind in overdrive and no case to stimulate it, the cocaine and heroin would have to do.

John finally began to wake slowly and stiffly, his body aching from the cramped position as he tried to stretch as best he could. He rubbed his eyes before finally opening them. Though the curtains covered the windows to shut them both out from the world, he could tell it was very early morning.

The doctor tried to focus his eyes on the figure of Sherlock not too far away. "Sherlock. Are you alright?" he asked, his mind fuzzy.

It took Sherlock a minute to realize someone was speaking to him. When he finally noticed he was not alone, he looked over to where John was lying with glazed over, bloodshot eyes. "You’re awake," he observed simply.

"So are you. Have you been there all night?" John asked, forcing himself into an upright position as he rubbed his eyes again.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock waved dismissively before he fell to staring at his own hand intently as if it were the most fascinating discovery he had ever seen. When he finally lost interest and dropped his arm, he let out an outrageous and random giggle.

When John's focus finally cleared and he shook the sleep from his mind, he noticed what was suddenly so obvious. "Sherlock, are you... high?" he demanded.

"As a kite," Sherlock giggled again. "I don't really remember why I gave this up, you know. It’s positively thrilling. I can think in so many colors…"

There was only a moment's hesitation before John jumped off the couch and stumbled over to his friend. He knelt in front of him, his hands grasping the arms of the chair tightly. "No, no, no, Sherlock... you can't do this!" he exclaimed. "What were you thinking?"

Sherlock looked down at John in startled confusion. "I was bored and you were sleeping," he told him plainly. "I'm perfectly fine. I'm not stupid enough to overdose... not after the last time."

"Tell me where it is! Where's your stash?!" John shouted, but thought about Mrs. Hudson and silenced himself. He would not allow her to see him like this. The poor woman would never forget it.

"I used it all up. I was only able to stash away a bit. It’s a pity, really," Sherlock answered thoughtfully, seemingly immune to John’s panic.

When John realized that Sherlock wasn't even listening, he grabbed the other man’s face and forced his gaze onto his. He looked into his eyes and judged the temperature of his skin to determine that no, Sherlock had not taken enough to overdose. "Sherlock, why have you done this? I thought you didn't need it, that you were better than this..." he tried when he released him.

"You only touch me when you’re angry at me," Sherlock told him instead.

John was silent for a moment, not knowing what that meant. "You're not making any sense. Sherlock, if you needed a distraction that badly, you could have woken me up... we could have talked..." he sighed. John leaned the back of his hand on Sherlock’s forehead again nervously to feel for a fever.

Sherlock sighed and leaned into the touch. He could not remember the last time someone touched him with something other than rage in mind. "I didn't want to wake you."

John pulled away and stood up to look worriedly down at him. "I thought you were done. I thought..." he stopped himself when he realized what he was thinking and how it must sound coming out of his mouth. He thought that being with Sherlock, sharing his flat and being his friend and accomplice was enough. Somehow, knowing that he wasn't enough hurt terribly.

"It's not your fault, John. Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed, knowing how John's brain worked. He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

John shook his head. "I won't let you do this again. It will distract you from your work. From... from our work," he stuttered nervously. He felt as though he had failed him.

"But I'm not doing the work now, am I?" Sherlock pointed out sarcastically. "Mycroft made sure of that... all because I pick pocketed him."

That was it. Even men with the patience of a saint and the discipline of a solider had their breaking point. In a fury, John began throwing random things around as he frantically searched for more of Sherlock's stash. He knew there was more, there must be more...

“Where is it?!”

"John! Stop!" Sherlock yelled, startled by the fact that the usually neat and orderly John Watson was making a mess.

John ignored him. "I need to find it! Where is it, Sherlock?!" he shouted, not bothering to listen as he continued to trash the flat.

"There wasn't much left! I used it all!" the other man insisted as he shot up out of his chair to grab John by the shoulders and shake him.

"Don't touch me!" John panicked, pushing weakly against Sherlock as if even the rough shaking was something that grounded him.

"I think you're having some sort of panic attack." Sherlock spoke so calmly for someone who was so high. "Breathe, John."

"I'm not having a panic attack!" was John's immediate response, because denial was always his way out of it. He continued to struggle against Sherlock until he felt the energy drain from him, and unable to stop himself, he leaned forward into Sherlock until his entire body rested on his in what wasn't an embrace but was somehow just as intimate. He leaned his head into the other man’s chest as he breathed raggedly just as Sherlock told him to. John’s body was running on a deeper, primal state of mind that wanted the reassurance of his body against his.

When Sherlock suddenly found himself with his arms full of John Watson, he didn't quite know what to do. "There, there," he soothed him awkwardly, patting John's back.

That brought the doctor harshly back to reality as he pushed himself away from Sherlock abruptly and refused to look him in the eyes. And yet all John could think about then was the way his friend felt against him: tall and lean but warm and strangely comforting, He distanced himself from Sherlock by several feet. "You... you disappoint me, Sherlock," he tried to find a way to reassure himself that he would never do it again. But there were no limits with him.

Sherlock hated when people said that to him. "And how exactly did I do that? You knew I was a user when you moved in with me."

John still could not face him. "I thought you had stopped," he explained. "I'll... I'll leave, Sherlock. If you are going to do it again. I don't want to watch you self destruct and be helpless to do anything about it," he threatened.

Sherlock's jaw clenched at the thought. He couldn't leave. Sherlock needed him. John had just used his best weapon against him. "I've been clean since before I met you. Until now, that is..."

"Yes, yes, until you got bored," John accused, his eyes still downcast to the floor. "And what did you mean by... I only touch you when I'm angry?" he asked tentatively.

Sherlock blinked at the sudden change in subject. "You never touch me unless you’re angry. For you it's subconscious."

John finally looked up at him. He was aware then that he must be a awful state to look at, with his hair every which way from sleep and his clothes crumpled. "I thought you hated to be touched," he answered, though it was more of a question that John didn't know what he wished the answer to be. This was all very strange yet he could not bring himself to leave the room. No matter what he threatened, he was not leaving Sherlock alone for another minute.

"That's not true. I just don't like to be touched when I'm not expecting it."

John closed and eyes and sighed. "Alright, then, forget I asked if all you are going to do is avoid giving answers," he gave up as he walked away into the kitchen with the intent of angrily filling the kettle with water even as his hands still trembled.

"John." Sherlock grabbed John's arm to turn him around. "Don't be upset. I answered you. Ask me something else."

John was surprised by the physical contact and tried not to jump from it. "You're high, Sherlock, and I don't know what you want me to ask."

"Whatever you want. I won't lie or evade," the detective promised, because in his drugged up, genius mind, it would make everything right again.

John had to admit that he loved these very scarce moments when Sherlock became desperate to please him. It happened so rarely that it almost never happened at all, but every once in a while John could see Sherlock becoming human for him.

Fine, then. If he was going to be this way, John was going to take advantage. Besides, what did he have to lose? He was sure Sherlock would only lie to him anyway, just as he was lying to himself.

John turned around to find Sherlock surprisingly close to him. His eyes focused on his shirt collar rather than his eyes as he finally asked, "Do you like when I touch you?"  
"Yes," Sherlock answered immediately.

That was by far the last response John expected and he finally looked up at him with a confused and somehow hopeful expression. "I-... what?" he stammered.

"Yes, I like it when you touch me even though you are usually upset with me when you do so."

John cleared his throat nervously. "And whenever you touch me, it is to restrain me or force me to go somewhere with you," he accused, because it was true, though the point he was trying to make was lost even on him.

"That's the only excuse I have to touch you. When I randomly touch you, you tense up," Sherlock told him.

John was overcome then. Staring with disbelief into Sherlock's eyes, he decided to put it to the test. A test to see exactly what kind of touching he meant to say that he liked so much. But his hand stopped halfway to Sherlock’s flat, broad chest and pulled away. No, this wasn't what he wanted. He was high. He was just trying to get him to stay. He didn't know what he was saying. "This is just the drugs talking. If you truly feel this way, you will tell me again when you're sober," he decided firmly.

That was when Sherlock did something rash. He grabbed John's face, brought it to his own, and kissed him chastely on the mouth before letting him go. He stared wide-eyed at John for a few seconds as if he could not believe what he himself had done before he quickly ran off to his bedroom and slammed the door shut.

John had been so stunned that he did not move or respond in any way except for the fact that his body went rigid against his, frozen in place as if he had just been confronted by a wild animal instead of a kiss. The simple yet intimate kiss burned against him and nothing could have prepared John for the almost violent shiver that raked through his body.

And that had been when Sherlock took off, leaving John shell-shocked and tea forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

An expensive looking black car slowed down along side an empty street. It rolled down its window, but John seemed lost in his own thoughts.

"John, I'd like to have a word. If you have a moment, of course." 

It may have even sounded polite to someone who wasn’t acquainted with Mycroft Holmes.

The doctor stopped walking and turned when he realized the car was for him. "Do I have a choice?" he asked rhetorically, but after a moment’s hesitation, he slid into the car anyway if only to get out of the rain. 

He did not allow Mycroft to speak before he quickly came out with what he needed to say before the other man could beat him to it. "You are destroying him. You cannot just shut him up in his flat! It isn't right!"

"He has to know that there are consequences to his actions. If I let him get away with one thing, they next thing he tries could be catastrophic," Mycroft said with a sigh. "I did not know he had access to drugs. My people searched the flat the other day but obviously they missed it." 

He sounded strangely apologetic. It made both of them uncomfortable.

"What? How did you know-" John stopped and shook his head. "You have to stop spying on him! He is entitled to some privacy. And for god’s sakes, you are not his mother.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes childishly. John would have laughed in spite of him then had he not been so angry. "The last time I decided to give him space, Sherlock ended up living on the streets addicted to drugs. I will not make that mistake again. You've been living with him for almost a year now… you know my brother needs to be... handled in a certain way."

"Yes, of course, but he is not a child!" John threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. "Look, Mycroft, I don't fully understand your relationship with each another, but I do know that you are in some ways making him worse. You must allow him to work. It is the only way he will not self-destruct. And besides, he has me now... and I like to believe it helps him to have me around."

Mycroft was silent for a moment as he stared at John intently. "I know he used you as an experiment at Baskerville and yet you have not shown any anger towards him since you have returned to London."

"I have been angry, we fought over it!" John argued. "Listen, if you do not release him, I will find him a case and there is nothing you or any of your men... or women..." he looked over at the girl texting on her phone in the seat beside them, "can do about it. You cannot keep spying on him. It makes me feel... uncomfortable."

"He stole my badge, stole secret government information, and then got high. And you think letting him off the hook will help him?" Mycroft tisked. "If anything, I should add another week."

"You can't jail him. He never would have gone back to the drugs if you hadn't of caged him like a wild animal. Do you have the place set up with cameras?" John suddenly demanded.

"Of course, and Sherlock knows of this. It was in our agreement before he even moved into Baker Street. It was either that or live with me. Those were the only options I allowed him," Mycroft said as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

That made John even angrier. "But it is my home too now, and I cannot allow it!" he shouted. "This ends now. You must allow him to be himself. The leash is only making things worse! Turn around and take me back to the flat!"

Mycroft let out a long sigh and gave the order to the driver. "Fine. I need to speak to my wayward brother anyway. I'm not giving up the surveillance. If it bothers you that much then you should look for another place to live. Especially… in light of recent actions."

"What do you mean, recent actions?" John asked, because he could not possibly mean the kiss. "I wish for my personal life to remain personal. It is none of your business, none of it," he practically growled. 

"Sherlock is my business. Anything he does is my business Dr. Watson, he is my responsibility, not yours," Mycroft insisted, and it was clear that he was losing his temper.

John turned to Mycroft and gave him a warning look. "Actually, I believe that now he is very much my responsibility. He is my friend and flatmate and I will not have you come between that," he ordered, and it wasn't until a moment later he realized how that sounded. He looked away from Mycroft quickly. "Just... just take me home. And don't follow me in, seeing you will only make it worse. You have... depressed him, Mycroft."

Mycroft actually looked alarmed at that. "Sherlock doesn't get depressed.... he gets manic."

When the car pulled up to 221B Baker Street, John turned to step out of the car, but turned to Mycroft one more time. "He is depressed. The problem with you, Mycroft, is that you don't bother to get to know your brother. He is not going to be your prisoner any longer."

Mycroft actually looked chastised at that. "I'm coming up with you," he decided, needing to see for himself now that his brother was okay.

John shook his head. "No, he does not want to see you. And he told me specifically not to speak with you, either, so just go off in your car and mind your own business. Please," he tried.

Mycroft reluctantly sat back down. "Fine. I will be coming by soon, though," he warned.

"Don't bother," John said as he made his way back to the flat. 

***

Sherlock was pacing his bedroom as he had been since he heard John leave. He had miscalculated. He did not know what had possessed him to kiss John the other night, but now that the drugs were wearing off and the familiar withdraw feeling was creeping in, he realized his mistake. 

The detective then felt John’s reluctant presence approaching his door. "Sherlock, I'm taking down the cameras. You must tell me where they are," he heard his voice say.

Sherlock frowned at that. Since when did John know about the cameras? Sherlock flung the door open, his forehead slightly sweaty from the after affects of the drugs but other than that appearing perfectly normal. "You've been talking to Mycroft," he accused.

John stole a quick glance at his friend. At least the fact that he was crashing told him he probably really did not have any more. Sherlock was many things, but he was not a liar. "Not because I wanted to. He pulled me into his car and forced me to speak with him. I told him it had to stop. The cameras, the spying, the lockdowns... it is ending now… because I said so," he hurried, not meeting Sherlock's eyes but instead glaring down at the space that separated them.

Sherlock actually looked shocked for a moment that someone had stood up to Mycroft for him. "And he just agreed to that?" he asked disbelievingly.

John shifted on his feet. "Well, no, but I don't care. The cameras are going down, so tell me where they are," he demanded. "How are you feeling?" he added tentatively.

"I'm fine," Sherlock dismissed, pushing past John to walk down the hall.

John watched Sherlock as he moved past him. "You should find a case, Sherlock. There are plenty of interesting cases..." he tried.

Sherlock began pulling dusty books from the shelves as he searched for the camera he knew had to be there. "Lestrade won't text me until Mycroft lets him," he said bitterly.

John clenched his fists in frustration. "I'll talk to him then. And there are plenty of potential cases on the blog, if you would just take a look." The sooner life went back to ‘normal’, the better, and the sooner they could both forget about the kiss.

"I'll think about it," Sherlock said, and smiled when he found the tiny camera. He pulled it off the wall and tossed it to John.

John smiled as well. "Are there more?"

"Not that I've noticed," Sherlock answered, which meant there weren't any more.

John studied the camera before dropping it to the floor and stomping on it with his shoe. Then, of course, he swept it up and placed it neatly in the trash. "You should drink some water, you look awful," he told his friend, and before he could argue, John puttered off to the kitchen and brought him a glass.

Sherlock sipped it, but only so that John wouldn't hover over him. "I'll be fine," he promised. He was getting rather tired of repeating himself, but John seemed to do better when Sherlock actually talked to him verses when he ignored him.

"I know you will," John told him honestly. "When you sober up, we will find a case. Until then, I will stay here with you.”

"You don't have to babysit me," Sherlock sulked.

"It's not babysitting," John disagreed, though he had to admit, it was a good way to put it. "We are a team now, and I just don't want you to fall ill. Besides, I didn't really want to go to work today, anyway," he faked a smirk, though that wasn't entirely true. He needed the money and he sometimes needed the break from his other job as sidekick to the world’s only detective consultant. 

But John could not leave him. He knew, though he may never hear his friend say it, that he needed him. He looked away shyly and held out the water again to Sherlock.

Sherlock watched the other man closely before snatching the water out of his hands again. "I thought we were just a team on cases."

John looked away, not knowing why that hurt. "Yes, well, you're my friend, too," he told him nervously as if he were unsure.

"Is that what friends do? Take care of each other when they are not feeling well?" Sherlock asked ignorantly, but the knowledge of the elephant in the room was stifling. "Friends don't randomly kiss each other."

And there it was. Once again, John was exposed and the tension rose so thick that he almost could not breathe. "Yes, I suppose they don't," he admitted. "Are you sober?"  
"Mostly, unfortunately," Sherlock sighed, sitting down in the nearest chair and covered his face in his hands. 

John, suddenly desperate to break the tension, decided that he had enough. Gathering up all his courage and energy and bracing himself for the worst, he stepped in front of Sherlock, took his hands away from his face and stole a close-mouthed kiss on his lips.

Sherlock stiffened immediately from the unexpected contact and pulled back to look at John. "Why did you do that?" 

John felt giddy from the contact of those lips again on his though it was nothing short of the chastest kiss he had ever given. "You did it to me. It's only fair," he smirked before he turned and walked away as if nothing strange had happened at all. 

***

The next night, John came home from work to find Sherlock predictably poised on an armchair. He shrugged off his coat and sighed. His job was becoming more and more stressful, not because of the worth itself, but because of Sarah. He hadn't asked her out again and had avoided any conversation with her since Sherlock first planted his lips against his in the kitchen. Suddenly, there was no need for someone like Sarah as there had been before. But it did make for awkward work days. He could tell she was losing her patience with him.  
Sherlock, however, had decided to begin an experiment. 

When John turned around to find Sherlock suddenly right behind him, the taller man snuck another quick kiss on his lips before abruptly turning around and flopping back down onto the sofa and picked up his violin as if nothing had happened.

It was like a strange game of tag.

John was stunned, so much so that he hadn't a second to react before Sherlock was miles away from him again. Somehow, just a simple kiss that could have been exchanged between family members made all the problems of the day disappear. "It's good to see you too, Sherlock," he teased lightly. 

"I have two more days left before Lestrade can give me a case," Sherlock told him, changing the subject quickly. "And all the cases on the website are boring."

"You don't give them a chance, Sherlock," John insisted, playing along. "Why don't you go out and get some fresh air? Why don't we take a walk?" he proposed suddenly, worried that Sherlock hadn't seen the sun in days.

"I don't need fresh air. I need a case, a real case," Sherlock insisted.

John sat down on the couch beside Sherlock. "Alright, well, we don't need Lestrade, you know. You are obviously focused on something. You're working something out in your mind. What is it?" he asked, though he thought he knew exactly what was thinking.

Sherlock focused on John's face for a moment before he looked away. "Nothing... just thinking."

"Thinking about what?" John asked again, because he knew what he hoped it was. "It's obviously bothering you, whatever it is."

"You don't kiss your other friends, do you?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

John tried not to smile. He had been expecting him to avoid the question as much as possible. "What if I did?" he asked, just to see Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock looked sharply at John. "Then I suppose that you have kissed a lot of people." he said neutrally.

"No, not really," John admitted, surprised at how angry it made him even if he tried to hide it. "Just you, Sherlock. You are the only friend I kiss."

Sherlock seemed to ponder this for a few moments. John cleared his throat nervously. "Do you only want me to kiss you?" he asked tentatively.

"I don't know," Sherlock told him honestly.

For some reason, John was disappointed with that answer. That was when he realized the problem. Perhaps this all meant nothing to Sherlock. Perhaps it was all just another experiment. "Alright. You're just confused and... it may be my fault. I think I do need some fresh air," he decided suddenly, rising up from the couch and making to leave.

"You just got home and I know you walked from the clinic," Sherlock interrupted, not liking the thought of John leaving so soon. He stood up, leaned forward, and quickly delivered John another distracting kiss.

That caused the doctor to freeze immediately and for frustration to expand to capacity inside of him. "That isn't a real kiss, you know," he informed him matter-of-factly. That was the only warning he gave before he stepped even closer and landed his lips hard on Sherlock’s, this time lingering. Sherlock gave a soft gasp of surprise as his lips parted instinctively against John's and his hands tentatively reached out to cup his face. 

John, encouraged, leaned further into Sherlock and parted his own mouth to nuzzle his and shyly test the waters before he could hold back no longer and his tongue flicked softly against his. His hands, which were now shaking, sought to grasp something, anything, to stabilize him. One hand gripped Sherlock's arm. He had to do this slowly, carefully.... though all he wanted to do was devour him.

Sherlock was a bit startled when he felt John's tongue flicker in his mouth and he pulled back to look at him quizzically. "Your tongue was in my mouth," he stated the obvious.

John did not allow Sherlock to move too far away from him. His hand clenched harder around his arm. "Yes, well... if you are going to insist on surprising me with kisses, I wish for you to do it right," he explained a little breathlessly as he leaned just a few inches further to nuzzle his lips with his again.

"Show me how," Sherlock demanded, and there was something sharply feline and predatory in his eyes then that made the doctor suddenly feel very weak in the knees.

John moved his entire body closer to Sherlock until their chests collided and lifted his hand to tangle it in his dark wavy hair. He pressed his lips against his again, slightly parted, and slipped his tongue back into his mouth to begin to show him exactly what to do.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut when he decided that yes, this was what he wanted. His own tongue experimentally sought out John's before he roughly pulled him by his shirt to bring him even closer… until there was a sudden knock at the door and both men quickly broke away from each other.

It was a rather loud, insistent knock.

"Fuck," John cursed under his breath. He swore to himself that whoever was at the door was going to murdered right on the spot for interrupting them.

"Language, John," Sherlock automatically chastised him. He already knew who was at the door.

John held his tongue against more curses as he stomped towards the door. He flung it open to find the very last person he wanted to see. "Guess who," he sighed to Sherlock.

Flopping down on the sofa, Sherlock rolled his eyes up at his brother. "What do you want, Mycroft?" he asked tiredly. 

Mycroft took one look at Sherlock's puffy lips and flushed face and turned to give John a meaningful glare before he turned back to his brother. "I came by to see you. I was informed that you took the cameras down. I believe we had an agreement which you violated."

"No, it was my idea," John corrected him without fear.

"You do realize I could have you sent back to Afghanistan," Mycroft threatened instantly.

That struck a very sensitive nerve within John who in return showed it on his face while not trying to show anything at all. Mycroft Holmes had just gone way too far. "No you couldn't," he told him simply.

Mycroft was about to say more when Sherlock interrupted. "Mycroft, I'm sure there are many other people in London you can be threatening. Lay off my blogger."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that, but something in the look Sherlock gave him had him changing the subject. "I heard you had a set back. I hope that this will be the last one?"

"I had a boring day," Sherlock gave as his only explanation.

Mycroft sat down in the arm chair. John was still standing like a soldier on guard. "It has been pointed out to me that I may have been overly harsh with you," Mycroft told his brother, not happy about admitting it.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed before he realized what was going on. Then, he smiled. "Anthea is angry with you. That's what you get for marrying your assistant," he teased him like the little brother that he was. 

John sighed and decided to intervene again. He was not looking forward to a screaming match. "Please, Mycroft, we are trying to have a nice evening. Is there a real reason why you are here?" he asked.

"Yes, I can see what a nice evening you were having," Mycroft accused John angrily before he stood up and walked over to Sherlock who, at this point, was ignoring him completely. "You know I only do these things because I want what's best for you," he admitted to Sherlock quietly. When his brother didn't respond, Mycroft sighed and briefly patted Sherlock's wild curls and left for the door. 

John opened the door encouragingly. "Thank you, Mycroft, have a good night," he dismissed him rudely.

"If you hurt him I will end you," the other man promised John on his way out, his voice low enough for only him to hear.

John was innocently surprised by that. "What- what do you mean, hurt him? How could I hurt him?" he demanded, taking offense even if he wasn't sure exactly what he meant.

Mycroft didn't feel the need to explain further and walked out the door without another word. John watched him go and continued to gaze in confusion at the door.

"John?" Sherlock asked worriedly when he didn't immediately turn around. "Whatever he said to you just ignore him. He's an idiot."

John finally turned away from the door. "Yes, well... I suppose I cannot blame him entirely. He is just concerned, I suppose," he shrugged, though his mind still vibrated from the kiss and his body still ached for more.

"He's not concerned, he doesn't get concerned. He is just meddlesome," Sherlock insisted. He stood abruptly and began pacing the floor, his robe flapping behind him like a cape. "He deduced that we had been kissing and it angered him for some reason.”

John opened his mouth a few times, but at first, nothing came out. "He is afraid I will hurt you. That you will become... emotionally invested in me, and then I'd leave you one day," he explained. "But... you're not emotionally involved," he added nervously, as if it were only fair to assume.

"Why would you leave?" Sherlock asked, immediately focusing on the one part that worried him.

John rolled his eyes. For as brilliant as Sherlock was, he was quite dense on matters of social natures. "Sherlock, I'm not going to leave. Listen, it doesn't matter," he insisted, and gently took Sherlock's shoulders to still him. "Stop pacing," he asked.

Sherlock stopped and focused on John instead of his racing thoughts. "Okay."

John tried not to giggle when his friend immediately stopped and stared. "Focus on this instead," he stood on his toes to land his lips on his again as if he had been impatiently waiting for more ever since Mycroft interrupted them.

Sherlock relaxed faster this time into the kiss that was still soft and sweet but grew quickly to be more heated. John remained on his toes to reach him and brought his arms around him. "You learn fast," he teased lightly when he finally broke the kiss, his head swimming. 

And that's when reality hit John and he began to consider what this all really meant. He liked kissing Sherlock. He liked it so much that it was starting to not be enough. He wondered what this all meant to his friend. Was he only doing this as part of some kind of social experiment? Was he in love with someone else, and with no prior experience, was trying to use John to learn how to kiss? 

John frowned and did not lean forward for more kisses. "I should go put on some tea," he excused himself quietly and reluctantly slipped away from Sherlock to walk to the kitchen.

"Tea is your answer to everything, isn't it?" Sherlock asked, following him into the kitchen.

John did not turn to look at him. "I didn't know I was looking for an answer," he replied as he filled the kettle with water.

"An answer for all the kisses," Sherlock explained, sitting down at the table and steepling his fingers as he studied John. "Will we be doing more of this?"

John had to laugh at that. "I suppose I just don't understand. Am I your next experiment? Are you really that bored? Because if you are playing with me, it needs to stop, because I want it too badly to lose it later," he finally turned around to face him bravely, leaning against the counter.

"And what exactly is 'it'?" Sherlock asked, still watching John closely.

John tried not to blush as he was presented with a question he did not know how to answer. He wanted to kiss Sherlock, strip him naked, and let him have him. But there was no way he was going to say that. Especially if it was impossible. 

"Kissing, I guess," he shrugged.

"You are not an experiment John. Not exactly," Sherlock told him. "I like kissing you. I would like to do more of it."

John refused to believe that he was so special to the detective. It couldn't be true that after his entire life of being uninterested in kissing, John has brought the desire out of Sherlock. John poured his friend a cup of tea and placed it in front of him. He did not want to admit that he would surely drive him insane with his heated kisses and his light touches. "Alright, then," he concluded. "We should probably keep it between us. People will talk, and it isn't good for business," he tried to change the subject.

"People assume we are a couple anyway. What does it matter if they talk?" Sherlock scoffed. He didn’t understand what the big deal was.

"It… it matters to me. We should keep our... kissing... private," John told him again awkwardly, talking down to his tea.

"You are embarrassed of me," Sherlock automatically accused, because it would not be the first time someone was.

John gave him a worried look. "No, no, Sherlock. Quite the opposite," he insisted, because it was true. He secretly loved the way the public had begun to look at them with adoration and fascination as if they were indeed famous. He loved being his... sidekick. It was exciting and brilliant. "I just don't want that kind of attention on us. I just want it to just be between us. Other people tend to... come in the way," he tried to explain.

Sherlock studied him for another moment before he came to a conclusion. "Ah, Sarah... I knew there was something," he said mostly to himself.

"What? No, Sherlock. I don't care if she knows, and lord knows she wouldn't be surprised," John admitted, because she was the one who tried to convince him that Sherlock was his boyfriend. 

"I just... don't care for her anymore. And it makes working there awkward. You're the one who told me to quit my job, Sherlock," he reminded him.

"I recognize that I am not an easy person to live with and you need to spend some time around… normal, boring people. I thought your job provided you that and that is why you hold onto it."  
John sighed. "Sherlock, please don't over think it," he tried to end the discussion.

"Fine," Sherlock hissed childishly. He suddenly stood and stomped into the living area to plop down on the couch and turn his back on John.

John huffed, and a moment later, followed after him. "What's wrong, what did I say wrong?" he demanded, because he genuinely didn't know.

"Nothing. I just need to think," Sherlock barked.

Normally, John would have taken that as a sign to leave Sherlock alone until he came out of his mind. But this time, he couldn't let him go. "About what?"

Sherlock growled and tossed a pillow in John's direction with surprising accuracy. The doctor balled his hands into fists and dodged it the best he could. "Fine!" he shouted angrily, knowing that Sherlock would not even hear him. He walked to the other side of the room and plopped down at his laptop, opened it, and immersing himself in his own thoughts.

***

It was another hour before Sherlock so much as stirred. When he did, the movement was so abrupt that John nearly jumped out of his seat in surprise. He sighed and returned his attention back to his blog as Sherlock began pacing the flat. 

Sherlock had worked out the problem that was John. He knew he had feelings for the other man; strange, overwhelming, terrifying feelings that he did not know how to handle. Sherlock really should have known this the moment stepped John out if that stall with explosives strapped to his chest. The way Sherlock's heart had about beat out of his chest in panic was even obvious to Moriarty. 

"John, I want to do more kissing," he demanded. 

John tried to hide his smirk as he continued typing, not bothering to look over at his flat mate. "You certainly are demanding," he teased, trying to cover up the fact that his heart had already begun racing.

"You knew that before now," Sherlock dismissed, rudely closing John's laptop and just barely missing the other man's fingers.

John did allow Sherlock to see his sly smile then. He would never admit it, but he liked when Sherlock was demanding. That was when he decided to play a little bit coy and hard to get. "I was busy, Sherlock," he lied as he stood up out of his chair and faced him.

Sherlock reached out to gently cup John's face while his other hand tugged him closer. "No you weren't," he said, kissing him lightly.

"I was," John argued, his lips against his, but he deepened the kiss despite himself. Damn the height difference, he cursed in his thoughts. His arms reached for him, wrapping around his middle and drawing him closer.

Sherlock found himself making a peculiar sound that he recognized as a moan. He had never heard himself make that sound before. John was surprised by it, having dreamt of what it would sound like, but never expecting it to hear it. He felt his own knees begin to weaken. He broke the kiss finally to whisper, "We should do this sitting down. It's much better that way," he offered.

Sherlock growled and without warning pushed John towards the sofa.

John giggled and caught himself before he could hit the ground. "Wait! Do you want me to fall?" he teased as he walked backwards to the couch and sat down.

"No, of course not. My objective is not to have you hurt," Sherlock said seriously. He leaned over John and kissed him hard again, pushing against him with his own body to coax the smaller man to lie down.

John willingly fell back against the couch and desperately tried to pull Sherlock on top of him. "What is your objective, then?" he teased between the increasingly heated kisses.

Sherlock pulled back to look down at John with a bit of confusion. "I'm not sure... I like the sounds you make. I like being the one to make you make them," he admitted with brute honesty. 

John wiggled underneath Sherlock's solid weight nervously, feeling his cock harden at an alarming pace. God, what would Sherlock do if he felt it? Panic? He continued to shift under him, trying to hide it, but only making it worse. "I wasn't aware I was making sounds.”

"You make this little satisfied humming noise," Sherlock told him before his lips spread into a smirk. "And you are apparently very aroused."

Feeling exposed, John tried harder to wiggle out from underneath Sherlock, but the other man was deadweight and he was trapped. "I am not," he halfheartedly denied, though it was surely just as obvious to Sherlock as it was to him.

"Then what is this then?" Sherlock teased as he pressed his groin against John’s, though he himself was not hard. He had superb control over his body, after all.

"Stop!" John gasped, because Sherlock had no idea that what he was doing was going to drive him absolutely mad. He was on the verge of embarrassing the hell out of himself. He managed to push Sherlock at least partially off of him. "What, do you not get hard or something?” he accused, though it really was a question that needed to be answered.

Sherlock had heard that question before when an experiment in college went too far and ended with Sebastian Wilkes punching him in his face and calling him a 'fucking freak' before then proceeding to telling everyone that Sherlock was the one to come on to him. "Not when I'm awake," he admitted. It was more than he had ever admitted to Sebastian. 

"Oh," John answered stupidly. He felt like a great bit idiot. After all, he was needy and hard and ready just from a simple kiss all while Sherlock had only an amused expression to show for it all. His body was as unchangeable and as a-sexual as ever. The doctor felt stupid and unpleasantly human. We do not want the same things, John considered in his mind. Sherlock was just toying with him with no plans of fucking him. 

And John Hamish Watson needed to be fucked on a regular basis. 

"I need to know right now, Sherlock...” John began in a defensive tone, “Is kissing all you want?"

Sherlock didn't like Defensive John. If John was defensive, the likelihood of getting anymore kisses significantly lessened. So he told the truth and hoped that John would understand. "I want you and all that entails."

For a moment, John simply stared up at Sherlock hopefully before he became defensive again. "Don't say that. You don't know what you're saying, and I have... have needs... needs that you do not," he finally decided to be blunt, but almost instantly regretted it. "I'm sorry. It's wrong for me to be saying that. I don't want to push you," he tried to apologize, and before Sherlock could reply, John was kissing him again.

Sherlock frowned and pulled away from the kiss because he needed John to understand. "I like when you push me. I'm not like you, though. I can't just flip a switch and be aroused. It's like with food or sleep. I never needed much so I simply trained myself not to need it at all. Do you understand?"

John wished he did understand. He didn't know what Sherlock was really saying. He knew all of it to be true, yes, but what was the message? That Sherlock will never become aroused except during sleep? That John will have to fall victim to random torturous bouts of kissing, but never anything else? 

"Yes, I understand," he lied, though he didn't make it very convincing. "Don't let this go to your huge head, but I like you the way you are. You are brilliant and amazing and handsome and... well, you've heard it all before…"

Sherlock brushed John's messy blonde hair off his forehead. Now that he had permission to touch him, he had plans to abuse that privilege. "Only from you. John, you know I... I care a great deal for you and I'm not really used to it. So I most likely will mess this up numerous times," he warned him ominously.

John silenced Sherlock by kissing him hard and only pulling away when he felt dizzy from lack of oxygen. "Shhh, I don't care. I know you're going to mess it up... more than numerous times."

John still had a million questions, but he knew they would all be answered in time if he was just a little patient with him. Or very patient with him. Either way, John knew that whatever it was between them was a very delicate and he wasn't going to be the one to ruin it. 

John decided to change the subject. "You're just planning on laying on top of me and kissing me all night?" he teased. The thought both frustrated and excited him.

"There wasn't really a plan," Sherlock said, nuzzling John's neck as he spoke. "Can I do something to help with your predicament?" he asked, and John gasped when Sherlock purposely wiggled to brush up against his cock.

This time, John did not push him away. He instead predicted that there would be many, many long, cold showers in his future. "What? There is no predicament," he still denied.

"Your erection says otherwise," Sherlock argued as he sucked a bruise onto John's neck.

When Sherlock’s teeth clamped down on a very fleshy part of his neck, John arched up against him and bit his lip to stifle a whimper. He had always been so very sensitive there. "I'm only human. You are on top of me giving me a hickey for christ’s sake... of course I have a hard on," he muttered, finally admitting it.

Sherlock mumbled something that sounded like 'marking my territory' before going back to making absolutely sure that John had a very noticeable hickey. John would never encourage him by admitting this, but he loved Sherlock's possessiveness. It made him feel needed and wanted and owned. It also made him even hornier. 

Tangling his fingers in Sherlock's dark curly locks, John pulled him back down into a kiss that was far needier and deeper than the rest. He pulled back to nuzzle his lips with his own as one shaking hand reached down Sherlock's chest to boldly cup his groin. Sherlock was still soft and unexcited. John’s brows furrowed in confusion. "Nothing?" he asked, his voice small as if the thought it broke his heart.

Sherlock was startled at the sudden fondling. "It doesn't mean anything, John."

"Yes, yes it does," John argued shortly. "Let me up, Sherlock," he demanded, fully intending to escape off to the shower and wank off until he could think clearly again.

"No, I'm not done kissing you."

Though John with his military experience may be stronger, he was still trapped underneath Sherlock’s tall, solid body. "Well, I am done, so if you would be so kind, I need to go shower!"

Sherlock seemed to consider this and stood up to free his friend. "Fine. But I'm showering with you."

John took a bit longer to become vertical again. While Sherlock was perfectly composed as if nothing had happened, John's knees felt weak. Especially when Sherlock did the unexpected yet again and demanding that he join him in what was going to be a very secret and very short wank in the shower. "No, Sherlock, I need to be alone."

"Why? I've seen you naked and you've seen me naked. I don't understand the problem." Sherlock pointed out.

This was all happening so fast. The frustration was building and burning and John found himself saying the words he really wished he wouldn’t have to. "I need to be alone... I was going to have a wank because if I don't, I'm going to explode," he finally explained as he rushed off towards the bathroom, his face bright red.

"Oh, well, hurry up," Sherlock demanded.

***

John did hurry, at least with taking himself in his slickened palm and jerking himself off under a steady stream of cool water. It took him an embarrassingly short amount of time to come bursting in his own hand all while thinking of the way Sherlock felt on top of him and the way his tongue explored him and the way he moaned. 

He wanked twice before he felt satisfied. He remained in the shower after he was sated, rinsing himself clean and thinking deeply about this new development in his friendship with Sherlock.  
When he finally decided to exit the bathroom, John found Sherlock in the kitchen. "What are you doing with those... human feet?" he twisted his nose in disgust. "On our kitchen table."

"Experiment," Sherlock told him simply, not even bothering to look up from the notes he was taking. "Have a nice shower?"

"I guess," was all John mumbled as he nervously cleared his throat and went to pour himself tea.

That was when Sherlock's phone beeped and he quickly snatched it up, desperate for a diversion. He grinned wide at Lestrade's text. "A case!" he yelled excitedly.

John was surprised and slightly disappointed. He wished that he could earn the same smile from Sherlock that an exciting case did. But alas, John knew Sherlock was married to his work and he was only his mistress. "What? You don't even know if you'll want the case..." he asked, though he was sure Sherlock was no longer listening.

"I don't care what it is as long as it means I can leave this flat. If Lestrade is texting me then it means Mycroft is letting him," he said while his fingers typed rapidly on his phone.

John was torn. Would this mean no more attention to him, no more kisses? Was all of it over before it could even begin? It might as well be for the best, John thought. Sherlock needed to be busy. He needed this case to breach out of his depression. 

"Well, what is the case, then?" John asked.

"Serial rapist. None of the victims remember what he looked like. Only pursues male victims... are you coming?" Sherlock asked retorically as he headed to the door and grabbed his coat and scarf.

"Yes," John agreed immediately, because there was no way he was going to allow Sherlock to leave without him.

Sherlock smiled at John before dashing off, glad that he was going to spend time with both his obsessions at the same time.


	3. Chapter 3

"Why do you need to speak to the victims?"

Lestrade had to speak loudly over the busy sounds of the crime scene. There was a chill in the air and a slow moving fog dragging across the earth like a ghost, making the narrow street feel eerie while lit up by police lights.

"Because they are lying. There is no way they could have not seen their attacker," Sherlock told the DI bluntly, but he was already bored with this case. There was no body, after all. He was suddenly far more interested in taking John home and making more bruises for him to have to cover up underneath scarves.

"The rapist is someone with some kind of power. That's why the victims admit to being raped but not to seeing their attacker," Lestrade offered hopefully.

John did a double take at Sherlock when he realized the other man was staring at him. He blushed, knowing that look in his friend’s eyes by now as both amusement and desire and knowing that all the others were most likely aware of it as well. "What, what is it?" he asked, trying to bring Sherlock out of it and back to his work. "Speaking to them won't work. If they aren't going to open up to detectives, they aren't going to open up to you. You certainty aren't the kind of person that will make them feel safe.”

Sherlock blinked as if he were coming back to reality. "Why not?"

John blinked back, surprised that Sherlock found staring at him much more entertaining than the case at hand. "Are you listening, Sherlock? I told you that you won't make them feel safe," he repeated.

"You're right," Sherlock announced, and he knew he had shocked every one listening by uttering those words. "You should do it then."

John looked awkwardly over at the detectives. "Me? No, I won't make them feel safe either," he shook his head.

Sherlock growled to himself. He did not like that this wasn't going his way. "I cannot help if I cannot speak to the witnesses... come along, John, we're leaving," he announced suddenly.

John didn't move even if his initial instinct was to follow. "Wait, no, Sherlock… aren't you interested at all in this case?" he whispered, not wanting the others to hear.

"Not really. Something much more interesting has come up," Sherlock told him quietly as he moved swiftly into John's space.

John instantly stepped back nervously. "Well, what is it?" he asked innocently.

"You, of course. You are very distracting," Sherlock whispered huskily.

That was when John finally realized what he meant. Oh. Sherlock wanted to do more kissing. As the responsible part of the team he made with Sherlock, John almost did not allow it. However, the look in the other man’s eyes told the doctor that he would simply be a fool not to leave with him right now. 

"Uh, we will be back. Keep us in touch, we will uh... work on it from home," John hurried to tell Lestrade as he obediently ran after Sherlock who was grinning like the cat who caught the canary.

John's heart was practically fluttering with the realization that Sherlock was this excited and this happy over the thought of taking him somewhere private to kiss him. And more importantly, he had left the case for him. John tried to remain composed when they both stepped into a cab, but in the safety of the darkness around them, he reached out to grasp Sherlock's hand.

"Sally thinks I hit you," Sherlock mused, tightening his fingers around John’s.

More surprises. John could not help but crack up in a fit of laughter. The girl didn’t know a hickey when she saw one. "Oh, like I would let you! I didn't know she was that dim."

"She has a talent for thinking the worse of me. I have hit you before,” Sherlock pointed out thoughtfully.

John hated her. He didn't like the way she looked at Sherlock. The girl was mad with jealousy. "Yes, and I have hit you. And you bloody well deserved it," he agreed before he leaned in close to Sherlock's ear to whisper, "You know, you cannot just dump a case because you want to take me home and ravish me."

"Yes, I can. I just did," Sherlock smirked. "I shouldn't have let you get away from me earlier."

John wanted to jump into Sherlock's lap right then and there and ignore the cabby completely. But the press would talk and John didn't want this reflecting on Sherlock's work or reputation. "It will pass. The novelty will wear off and soon I will just be filling in for your skull again," he teased, though his true anxiety showed through in his words

"I don't think so. I consistently learn something new about you everyday," Sherlock told him honestly.

Finally, they stopped in front of 221B Baker and John untangled his hand from Sherlock's. He paid the cabby and slipped out of the car to walk unhurriedly with Sherlock following closely behind. As soon as John opened the door, Sherlock pushed him roughly against the wall and kissed him firmly, not caring that they were in the hallway and Mrs. Hudson could walk in and see them at any moment.

John welcomed this attack immediately, not resisting but instead pushing against him as he kissed him back. Sherlock was getting good at this... very good. John loved the weight of his taller body pinning him against the flat wall, the way his long arms caged him in, and the persistence with which he devoured his mouth. The doctor stood taller on his toes to better kiss him and his knees spread instinctually to feel Sherlock’s boney hips against his. 

John finally broke the kiss when he realized this was progressing too fast in the wrong part of the building. "We should go upstairs, darling," he whispered when he finally pulled away from the kiss, the pet name flowing from his mouth effortlessly. 

"I've never heard you call any of your girlfriends that," Sherlock mused. In fact, John seemed to never use pet names with anyone at all.

John had barely noticed. He tried not to get too nervous about it. "Well, you never allowed me to get close enough to them," he teased. "Come on, before I make you have me right here against poor Mrs. Hudson's hideous wallpaper." He attempted to gently free himself.

"I already have you. You are mine," Sherlock told him and possessively clutched at John's hips.

John was dizzy with those words. Never before had he wanted so badly to be owned. He nuzzled Sherlock affectionately and was half an inch away from another kiss before he remembered again where they are. "Upstairs. Now," he demanded, not giving Sherlock a chance to argue this time as he pried himself away from him, took his hand firmly in his, and dragged him up the stairs to the privacy of their own flat. Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled along, responding immediately to what Sherlock thought of as John's 'Captain' voice.

John opened the door just as quickly as he shut it behind them. His lips found Sherlock's again immediately, more confident now in their privacy. But he wanted more. "My bed is a nice place for kissing," he suggested hopefully.

"Your bed is cleaner, too," Sherlock agreed, though he was a little hesitant. "The height difference is more manageable when we are lying down."

"Hey!" John shoved him playfully. "It's not my fault you are monstrously tall," he added teasingly with a gentle nip to Sherlock’s bottom lip. He pulled him again towards his bedroom and turned only one light on, wanting it to remain dimly lit.

Sherlock tugged at his scarf to pull it off followed by his coat, his movement jerky with apprehension. John almost tripped as he clumsily kicked off his shoes and shrugged off his own leather jacket. He hadn't had time to change before leaving for the crime scene, so he was still wearing a simple striped t-shirt and jeans. Those, he decided, he would try to take off later. Impatiently, he grabbed Sherlock and pressed his chest against his. "You said you've seen me naked before. I don't recall any time where I was aware you had. When was it?"

"Oh, well, you weren't really paying attention...you didn't know I was in the flat when you walked to the kitchen right after you had a shower. I didn't see any reason to announce my presence," Sherlock explained as he felt his face heat up from the memory.

John laughed softly at that. "So you were spying?" he teased, and not expecting much of an answer, he reached up to kiss him again and tugged them both over to the bed.

Sherlock pushed John onto his back and straddled his hips. John bounced when he landed, his erection evident between them, but this time, he did not shy away. "Not spying," Sherlock denied.

"Fine, but you were certainty being voyeuristic," John pointed out as he gently pushed away from Sherlock to slip his t-shirt over his head and tried not to blush when he felt suddenly very exposed. Though he sometimes hid it well underneath jumpers, his body was firm and toned but also scarred. His shoulder ached to think about it.

Sherlock's eyes and fingers automatically went to it. "I observe," he corrected, and leaned down to kiss the mangled flesh.

John was somewhat put off by the fact that Sherlock automatically focused on his awful scar, but he had to remind himself who Sherlock was. He also had to remind himself that he finally had Sherlock in his bed and that he wasn't going to let anything push him away. To distract him and bring his focus back to where he wanted it, John cupped his friend’s face and kissed him messily.

Sherlock moaned and allowed the distraction temporarily but pulled back a moment later to ask, "What do you want, John?" The tone of his voice had a level of arousal and desperation that John had never heard from him before. It set his teeth on edge.

That question surprised John, but Sherlock had always been upfront. He knew what he wanted, what he needed, but this wasn't about him right now. John pressed his body against Sherlock's as one brave hand traveled slowly down the other man's still clothed chest to cup his groin.

"For you to let me touch you," John whispered against his lips.

John was convinced of one thing: That Sherlock, despite all his strongest efforts, was human. Deep down and despite how he had so skillfully trained his body and mind, Sherlock could get hard just like every other human man on the planet. And John was determined to show Sherlock how to let it happen.

Sherlock shivered at the sudden touch. "Whatever you want," he promised.

John pulled Sherlock closer and practically dragged him on top of him. His own naked chest felt strange against the fabric of Sherlock's clothes and he wanted desperately to tear them off, but he refrained.

Still kissing Sherlock, John's hand lowered once again to the slight bulge in his groin and cupped it in his sweaty palm. God, Sherlock felt huge even when he was flaccid, just as John had hopefully suspected. The thought made him dizzy. He began to massage him gently through the thick layers of clothing. "Can I?" he asked a little breathlessly, worried that he might be taking it too far.

Sherlock wasn't as startled this time at the touch but John did feel him tense. "I say whatever you want and you just want to touch me?" he asked with a small smile.

John bit back a giggle as he continued to simply massage Sherlock through his pants. "Yes," he admitted. "This is what I want," he whispered into a kiss as he slowly unbuttoned and unzipped his pants.

John tried not to lose control when he felt Sherlock push against him instinctually as if he wanted this just as badly. The thought of unraveling the tight rope that was Sherlock Holmes and making him lose control sent shocking shivers up his spine. "We'll take it slow," he assured him as he slid his hand into Sherlock's pants and slid out his cock. Immediately, his glance lowered to it.

Sherlock nodded, speechless for once as someone besides himself touched him for the first time. John breathed heavily as he took Sherlock's flaccid cock in his hand and gave him an experimental stroke. "Just let it happen," he whispered, in case Sherlock was holding himself back from what his body wanted. "I want you hard," he added, wondering if that would get him going.

Sherlock groaned as his felt heat start to pool in his stomach.

John took his hand to his own mouth and spat into his palm before he returned it back to Sherlock and began to stroke him with a firmer, much slicker grip, though still slow and careful. His free hand tangled in Sherlock's curls to bring him down into a kiss.

Sherlock knew he was getting hard from those firm wet strokes. It was overwhelming, but he trusted John. He had to. He could feel his whole body begin to betray him as he started to tremble. Even during past bouts of experimental masturbation, Sherlock had never felt this kind of alarming pleasure that he felt now with John’s hand on him. 

His overly sensitive body ached as it woke from a lifetime long sleep.

John felt Sherlock begin to stir alive and harden, but he knew he was still fighting it even if he was doing it subconsciously. "You have a magnificent cock, you know," he teased against his lips, hoping to ease the resistance he felt from his new lover.

That got a breathless laugh out of Sherlock. "I did not know a penis could be described as magnificent."

John grinned and kissed him deeply again. "Well, yours is. It's perfect, I knew it would be," he added, still trying to work him into full hardness.

"I've never... I've never done this before," Sherlock confessed even though he knew John knew this. He was now fully hard as he tried to thrust into his fist. He was finally letting go and listening to the primal demands his body was making.

John smiled and gently bit Sherlock’s bottom lip. He spread his own legs underneath him and began to stroke him harder and encouraged him to thrust. "I know, darling," he whispered between kisses. "Feel good?" he asked huskily.

"Yes, very good... too good," Sherlock mumbled into John's neck. His tone bordered on panic.

The thought that he was the first to ever arouse Sherlock and touch him like this made John even harder. But he ignored his own need to messily smear the precome that was forming at the head over the rest of Sherlock’s slickened cock. At one point, he brought his hand up to his mouth to lick his fingers and taste his unique bitterness. 

Sherlock watched him lick at his fingers closely. "That... that is strangely arousing," he found himself admitting. Sherlock was impressive while flaccid, so the sight of his large, solid, and finally fully erect cock made John’s hand embarrassingly clumsy as it returned to him and stroked him harder. 

"Next time, I'll use my mouth on you," John whispered directly into his ear.

"That… that can't be sanitary," Sherlock said to try and focus. He felt like he was on the edge of a wave and about to crash over.

John laughed and cupped his balls to squeeze and feel the heavy weight of them. "Do you not want me to do it, then?" he teased.

Sherlock groaned at the thought. "John... I'm..." was all he could say before he was suddenly coming into the other man’s hand and onto his chest. The explosion nearly caused him to black out as his body tensed and released in such a perfect way that stars danced behind his closed eyelids and the loud, obscene sound that emitted out of his throat then was just embarrassing. He knew he would never be the same.

John worked him through it, stroking Sherlock slower now and feeling his cock pulse in his grip. "Yes," he hissed as he soothingly worked his free fingers through his hair.

Sherlock was panting into John's neck as his grip around the other man tightened. He didn't know why he had waited so long to experience this, but he realized of course that it was because he didn’t always have John.

John continued to stroke him until he knew Sherlock could not handle any more and pulled his tired hand away. "Alright?" he had to ask as he continued to soothe him with his hand through his hair.

Sherlock kissed John's neck. "Yes, give me a moment and I'll return the favor."

John was nearly ready to explode, but he nuzzled him and said, "You don't have to." He was sure that at this point one simple touch from Sherlock would have him coming like a teenager. 

"I want to make you happy.” Sherlock sat up on his hands to look down at his lover as one gentle, broad hand ran down his chest until it reached John's groin.

John took a deep intake of breath and instantly arched into the touch. "You do make me happy. I loved watching you come… god, Sherlock, I'm close already," he admitted.

Sherlock's hand hastily unbuttoned his trousers, reached into them, and tentatively took hold of John's cock. "That's good, because I don't really know what I am doing."

John moaned. "It's- it's okay," he panted. He covered Sherlock's hand with his own and guided it gently up and down. "Like this," he showed him. Sherlock may be a virgin, but he was also a genius, and luckily for John, a fast learner. He gripped John tightly and stroked him just as he had. 

John took his own shaking hand away and let Sherlock take over, moving his hips with each stroke and biting his lip to hold back from the orgasm that threatened to rip through him far too soon. He fisted the bed sheets underneath him and finally opened his mouth to emit a loud, high pitched cry. 

Sherlock was startled by the sound, but his hand didn't stop and he instantly became obsessed with hearing more. John had always been quite vocal during sex, especially when he came, and this wasn't any different. "God, Sherlock," he breathed, loving the sound of his lover's name rolling from his mouth. "I'm gonna come," he warned.

Sherlock responded by kissing him hard. John pulled back a moment later to cry out and thrust up into his lover’s hand and came for what seemed like a record length of time. Sherlock watched him come undone, his sharp, focused eyes taking in every detail. He continued stroking him through his climax.

John finally reached out to still Sherlock's hand around his twitching cock when it became too much. He was still speechless when he reached for his lover and kissed him. When he finally opened his eyes, John noticed the same amused and fascinated expression Sherlock wore whenever he had discovered something amazing.

John slowly came back to life but was still boneless underneath Sherlock. "You... you won't do this with anybody else, right?" he asked nervously when he broke yet another kiss.

"Of course not. Never," Sherlock promised him. "Your orgasm apparently exploded your brain if you think that."

John felt his face heat up. "It very well could have," he laughed. "I haven't had a good orgasm since..." he stopped when he realized that he probably shouldn't be telling Sherlock about the last time he got laid. "Uh, a long time."

Sherlock growled. "You are not allowed to talk about your past lovers when you are in bed with me."

John kissed him hard to reassure him and correct himself. "I didn't, I didn't," he apologized.

Sherlock huffed and his grip on the other man tightened. "You are mine... I can't let you go now."

John thrilled at those words. He had never allowed any other to get away with saying that he belonged to them. "I won't leave you," he promised. "Even if you are insanely infuriating at times."

"I know. I thought for sure you would leave after the hound case."

"Maybe I should have. If you ever try to drug me again, Sherlock, I swear..." John threatened.

The thought of John leaving him terrified Sherlock more than anything, but he was nothing if not impossibly stubborn and had never been good at knowing when to keep his mouth shut. "You'll what? It was an experiment. I had to do it to solve the case."

John huffed. "You didn't have to do it to me to solve the case. You scared me to death! I'm not your guinea pig!" he argued.

"You're right, I should have found someone else to drug, Lestrade would have worked," Sherlock thought, not really getting the point at all.

"You can't just drug people, Sherlock," John sighed as Sherlock twisted his words around. "I thought you were being nice when you handed me that coffee.”

"I was being nice... and I was drugging you. But you see the two as unrelated... can you not be mad at me just after you made me orgasm?" Sherlock said very quickly, his words running on top of themselves.

John forced himself to calm down and shift closer to his lover. He was right. "I forgive you, even if you don't deserve it. Just don't do it again. You should know it’s not a good idea to drug an army doctor with PTSD and put them in a rat maze.”

Sherlock was about to argue further, but decided that maybe John could have the last say just this once if it got him to shut up. But he knew better than to make promises he could not keep, so he simply kissed John and whispered, "You should get some rest."

John pulled the blankets they had kicked away over both himself and Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him. "I should get some rest? Sherlock, when was the last time you slept?" he asked gently, because he knew it must have been a while.

"What day is it?" Sherlock asked innocently.

"It's Thursday. Will you try to sleep here with me?" John asked hopefully.

Sherlock had a lot of things he wanted to get done tonight, but he knew it would make John happy if he stayed. "I'll try," he promised.

John wrapped his arms tighter around Sherlock, hoping that even while asleep, they would hold him right there. "What do you need to do that is so important you have to leave my bed?" he mumbled.

"Nothing," Sherlock denied. "I'm just not tired."

"Mmmm," was John's only reply as he closed his drowsy eyes. “I’m very tired, though," he admitted sleepily.

"Go to sleep, then."

John said nothing as he wrapped his arms and even a leg around Sherlock, insuring that he would have a very difficult time getting up and out of bed even after he was asleep. His body spent and satisfied for the first time in months, John passed out easily.

Sherlock knew love was a weakness, one he could not afford to have. But laying here, wrapped up in John, smelling his hair and feeling his heat, Sherlock decided he would take the weakness if it meant he could have this. Eventually he was lured to sleep by the sound of John's soft snores.


	4. Chapter 4

Hello, John, it's Greg. Sorry to bother you at work, but I just had an alarming conversation with Sherlock that I thought you should know about... I'm pretty sure we somehow ended up discussing… the birds and the bees. Anyway, as if that wasn't strange enough, he got aggravated with my answers to his questions and said he was going to find a ‘professional’. Then he stormed out. So if you end up with a confused prostitute in your flat... please don't blame me. Anyways, just a heads up.

John panicked and closed his phone right away as if the whole clinic had heard and tried to pretend that he didn't just get a very awkward voicemail from Lestrade telling him that Sherlock was asking about sex and then... no, he couldn't believe that Sherlock would contemplate such a thing.

Lestrade was wrong, he thought. Sherlock would never hire a prostitute and John simply refused to allow his new complicated relationship with the detective come in between him and his job. He simply assumed that Sherlock was causing a fuss for the smug satisfaction of tricking him into leaving work. Well, he wasn’t going to play that silly game no matter how much that voicemail frightened him. He had his own table full, sick people to see, and an ex-girlfriend to avoid.

John left work on time that evening and didn’t hurrying home. He had almost forgotten about the voicemail and was actually in a rather cheerful mood when suddenly and unexpectedly a young man who was quite obviously a male prostitute walked past him in the doorway of 221 Baker St.

The doctor was so shocked that he fell back against the wall, barely holding his body up from collapsing. "What... who are you?!" he shouted angrily. His voice was undoubtedly loud enough for Sherlock to hear.

The young man stopped and turned to give John a sly smirk as if he knew exactly who he was. Though he looked absolutely exhausted and maybe even slightly stoned, he wasn’t a bad looking bloke. It did nothing to ease John’s fury. "Don't worry. I just got him ready for you," the whore said cryptically with a wide grin before he rushed back out onto the streets.

When John turned around to find Sherlock suddenly right behind him, he jumped and instantly slapped him hard across the face. "Get away from me!" he screamed into his lover’s face as he pushed past him and stormed up the stairs.

Sherlock stood for a moment stunned. He touched his stinging cheek gingerly and frowned as he tried to diagnose just what the hell had just happened. A moment later, he was running after his lover.

John stormed into the flat and began to throw objects violently out of his way. "John, it isn't what you think," Sherlock told him as he watched his partner tear apart the living room. He took a step back warily as if he thought John might try throwing things at him. "I was doing research," he tried to explain.

John stepped right up to Sherlock and glared up at him angrily. "Don't talk to me. I don't want to hear it!"

Sherlock reached out as if to touch John but thought better of it and dropped his arms to his side. "I interviewed him… that is all. You need to calm down."

"I don't believe you!" John shouted, so angry now that he could no longer look at Sherlock or even hear what he was saying. "I'm leaving, I'm going out!" he announced. Sherlock instantly panicked and grabbed the other man by the shoulders to pull him into a desperate kiss. He was scared that John may not come back if he left as angry as he was.

For a moment, John was too stunned to react, but he eventually shoved him away. "Don't touch me!" the doctor demanded again. He looked away so his lover would not see the tears stinging his eyes.

"John, I wouldn't kiss anyone but you. I wouldn't be with anyone but you, do you understand?" Sherlock asked cautiously, needing to get his point across but not wanting to anger John further.

John shook his head. "You hired a male prostitute!" he shouted, because he still did not understand what Sherlock was saying or doing with the other man. "What if I went out and did the same, Sherlock?!"

"I hired him so I could talk to him about you... about us. I wanted to know how to please you sexually and I wanted an expert in the field," Sherlock tried to explain.

John shook his head again. There were so many things wrong with that. "It doesn't mean that you get to experiment with someone else!" he insisted and began pacing the floor like an angry, caged animal. It drove John crazy knowing that this whore touched Sherlock before even he did.

John abruptly stopped his pacing and stepped in front of Sherlock. The fact that he could never fully intimidate the so much taller other man only frustrated him more. "Was he good, then? Did he make you come?!" he growled.

"He didn't touch me and I didn't touch him. Do you really think I would do that?"

Normally, John would love the fact that Sherlock was being so kind to him, but this was not the time to appreciate the rare emotion in his eyes. "Even if you are telling the truth, why would you ask him? Why not ask me?!" he argued, but did not wait for him to answer. "I can't be near you right now, Sherlock, because I want to hit you again," he warned as he pushed past him to leave.

Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and held on tight. "Then you will have to hit me again because I'm not letting you go otherwise."

John struggled against Sherlock's vice-like grip. "I said don't touch me," he hissed, but it was clear that he was starting to wear down. He was not going to hit him again, but he wasn't going to leave, either. Where would he go, anyway? To his sister’s place? He cursed himself for his own lack of independence. "He said... he said he 'got you ready for me', which I'm pretty sure means-" he stopped, because he couldn't make himself say it.

Sherlock let go when he was sure John wouldn't bolt out the door. "He just explained things with words. Lestrade was absolutely no help and I didn't think the internet was a safe bet… and I'm pretty sure anything out of a prostitute's mouth ends up being an innuendo."

John glared into his lover's eyes, but this time, he listened. "Why didn't you just ask me, Sherlock?!" he demanded as he stomped away to the kitchen. Sherlock let out a relieved sigh when John began to heat water.

"You already know about sex. I wanted to know, too... and I didn't want to ask you something I should already know," Sherlock admitted. It was clear that he was having trouble putting it into words.

John waited impatiently for his tea. Was it possible for Sherlock to have insecurities? To want to impress him? "That makes absolutely no sense to me, Sherlock. Whether you are experienced or not does not matter to me." When finally the tea was ready, he poured himself a cup and walked off to his bedroom. "Just leave me alone, please," he ordered.

Sherlock let him go because he knew that tone of voice. He knew he would just have to wait this out, though he wasn’t sure he had the patience or the willpower. He flopped down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling, and a few moments later, he took out his cell phone. He fidgeted with it in his hands for a time before finally writing the text.

I may have miscalculated. ~SH

I'm surprised you haven't done so sooner. Give him time to calm down and leave him alone for a few hours. ~MH

Sherlock scowled at the phone and threw it at the wall, adding to the ever bigger mess John had made.

***

John always found that writing soothed him. That was why his therapist had encouraged him to start a blog. Though he did not intend to publicize this specific entry he was writing, it still offered his out of control anger a safe outlet.

It was a few hours later that John finally emerged from his bedroom in pajamas and a robe and shuffled past Sherlock as if he didn't even know he was there to begin washing his mug in the sink. He knew that Sherlock was many things, but he was not a liar. If he had gotten physical with that boy, he would have told him the truth.

"Still angry with me?" Sherlock asked the ceiling, not moving from his laid out position on the couch.

John didn't answer that question. He had one of his own. "What did he tell you?" he asked without looking at him.

"He wasn't very informative. It took me half an hour to explain that I didn't want sex and another half an hour to negotiate payment. I ended up with five minutes of crude language about where to stick my penis in different orifices," Sherlock said in aggravation.

John was silent for a moment as he leaned against the counter and finally looked over at Sherlock in the other room. "I don't want you to ever see him again. And I don't want you seeing anyone like him, either," he told him, his voice still shaky with emotion.

Sherlock was set to argue but what he saw when he sat up to look at John made him pause. "All right, no more prostitutes," he agreed.

John gave a quick nod. "I'm going to bed," he announced as he walked back to his room.

"Can I join you?" Sherlock asked after a few seconds of hesitation, unsure of his welcome now in John's bed.

John sighed and walked into his room without caring if Sherlock followed or not. "Fine," he barked. It may be good to have Sherlock next to him all night, after all. At least he won't be able to leave him to talk to more prostitutes.

John ignored the other man completely as he shrugged off his shirt and slipped beneath the covers of the bed. When Sherlock slid beside him, John turned his back, closed his eyes, and tried to pretend he did not feel the pressure of his lover’s eyes on him. He was still awake when Sherlock finally spoke. "John, how long do you plan on being mad at me?"

John opened his eyes to glare at the wall. "Why? Does it interfere with whatever plans you have? A case?" he accused.

"No, I would just like to know when we can get back to the kissing. I like kissing you, John," Sherlock replied honestly in a sweet tone he so rarely used.

John's eyes narrowed as he turned around to face the other man. "You don't even know why I'm upset, do you? I'm upset because I came home to find a prostitute in our flat that you hired. And even though for some strange reason I believe you when you say you didn't touch him and he didn't touch you, I think it was an awful thing to do. Especially because if you had questions, I could answer them. Also, it is no one's business that we are... whatever we are, and I would have preferred it to stay between us," the doctor explained. He was still stuck in the Army's mindset that homosexuality was punishable. Even when he was sleeping with his fellow male soldiers, it was kept private. If the whole world knew he and Sherlock were lovers, it would hurt both of their reputations. "So I don't feel very much like kissing you anytime soon, Sherlock."

“I don't understand why we have to keep what we have a secret,” Sherlock immediately argued. “People already assume we are a couple as it is and it doesn't stop women from hitting on you. You told me the night we first met that 'it was all fine' and yet you are obviously ashamed of what we are doing, otherwise it wouldn't matter to you who knew."

John grew frustrated with the way Sherlock twisted his words around to mean something else. "I'm not ashamed, Sherlock! If anything, I'm honored that you have chosen me," though his words were kind, his tone was still angry. "And women do not hit on me.”

"Oh, please, you cannot be serious. You practically have 'perfect husband' written on your forehead and women sense that."

"I do not! I would make an awful husband!" John insisted. He wondered how they even began arguing over this in the first place. "You are delusional. I don't want to keep this a secret, but I also don’t want to proclaim it from the highest point in London! No one will ever take us seriously if they think I am just your slut!"

Sherlock bravely wrapped his arms around John as if that would calm him. "Why would they think that? Maybe they would think I'm your slut," he tried to tease to lighten the mood.

John pushed Sherlock away. "I said don't touch me," he warned.

Sherlock slowly pulled his arms back. He didn’t think he could handle John pushing him away one more time. Getting aggravated, he got out of bed. "You shouldn't worry about what other people think, John," he snapped.

John only sighed. "Where are you going?"

"I'm getting some air," Sherlock said as he pulled his pants back on in angry, jerky movements.

John tried really hard not to show how put off he was by that. "Oh, so now you're angry at me?!"

"Yes, I believe I am," Sherlock answered simply, buttoning up his shirt.

"Why?"

"Because you aren't making any sense right now and I don't want to deal with it!" Sherlock snapped, and with that, he quickly walked out of the room.

John stopped himself from shouting abuse through the closed door and just allowed Sherlock to leave. He desperately wanted to know where he was going and when he would be back, but he refused to show that much insecurity in front of him, and instead, he stubbornly sank back down into the bed.

***

Sherlock didn't stay out long, just long enough to step outside and chain smoke in a back alley. Until now he had been doing well to avoid cigarettes, but this issue with John had shattered his resolve. He came back into the flat about an hour later, reeking of smoke and not knowing what to do.

John was in bed reading a medical journal when he heard Sherlock return. He had heard Ms. Hudson downstairs asking his lover if they have had a fight, but he could not understand his lover's response. Not expecting to see Sherlock the rest of the night, he went back to reading.

Sherlock had shrugged Ms. Hudson off and headed up the stairs but stopped when she added one more piece of advice. "Just apologize, Sherlock, even if you don't understand what you did wrong," she told him, and Sherlock considered this.  
As soon as Sherlock entered the flat, he headed to John's room and knocked hesitantly at the closed door. John did not answer right away and contemplated remaining silent and faking sleep. Finally, however, he sighed and spoke. "What is it?"

Sherlock took that as permission to come in and he opened the door. "I'm sorry," he admitted quickly as he moved to stand next to John's bed.

John was surprised by the unexpected and strangely heartfelt apology. He did not look up from his journal, however. "You don't even know what you are sorry about."

"I'm sorry for bringing a prostitute back to our flat," Sherlock said, and tried to make it sound like it wasn't a question. "I’m sorry I made you angry," he added sincerely.

John knew how difficult this was for Sherlock, a man who probably had never apologized before in his life. "Alright, Sherlock," he forced himself to say. "Thank you."

Sherlock sighed in relief and bent down to kiss John on the cheek before the other man had the chance to turn away. "Goodnight, John," he told him, thinking his lover still needed space and intending to give him whatever he needed.

John reached out to grab Sherlock's arm before he could leave. He hated himself for what he was about to say next and realized then how helplessly whipped he really was. "Stay with me," he whispered, but took his hand back quickly. "You need to sleep."

Sherlock seemed to consider this. "Do I get a kiss if I stay?"

John rolled his eyes. "Just get in the bed, Sherlock."

Sherlock had taken off his coat, scarf and shoes at the door, so he pulled back the bed’s covers and slid onto the other man's lap instead of getting in beside him. He straddled his hips and grinned down at the surprised look on John's face.

John squirmed underneath him and tried to shove him off. "Sherlock, I'm not in a playful mood," he growled, nervous about what Sherlock had brewing in his mind then.

"I don't like it when we fight," Sherlock said, plucking the journal out of John's hands and throwing it on the floor. "You can't introduce me to sex and then not expect me to want more."

"Hey!" John protested when he lost his reading material and squirmed out from under Sherlock, but when Sherlock's words hit him, he fell silent. "You... you want more?" he asked stupidly.

"Of course I want more, you silly man," Sherlock told him, exasperated. "You introduced me to a mind blowing experience, why wouldn't I want more?"

John stared up at Sherlock. "You want... everything?" he asked hesitantly. Did Sherlock even know the general mechanics as how two men have sex? Would he want that if he did?

That made Sherlock pause to think. "Maybe, I'm not sure," he said with a frown. "Are you a top or a bottom?" he asked curiously.

John squirmed again with nervousness. He didn’t know how to answer that question. "I- I don't know... usually a... bottom, I suppose," he blushed deeply and brought the bed covers over himself tightly. "If you don't want it, that's fine, it's all fine," he said quickly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and kissed John on the lips, because if John was going to keep squirming in embarrassment, it was going to turn him on.

John allowed the kiss, though a bit reluctantly. He wasn't one to let problems go this easily. He was still hurt and a bit angry and maybe more than a bit jealous. But he was too tired to fight anymore, especially if deep down all he wanted to do was kiss him back right now in this bed. "I hope you know... I don't expect anything. Just... just whatever you want is what I want," he stuttered when he broke the kiss.

"I want you... I'm just not sure how I want you just yet. Can we do what we did last night?" Sherlock asked as his hand reached down to press against John's cock through his pajamas.

John wanted to. God, he wanted to. But if he let Sherlock touch him, he would lose all resolve and soon he will be rutting against him in seconds. He stubbornly pulled away from him. "Sherlock... I'm tired," he whispered.

Sherlock looked at John as if he were trying to deduce if that were true before he pulled away and lay down beside his lover. "Maybe tomorrow, then?"

John licked his lips and tasted strong cigarette smoke. "Were you smoking, Sherlock?" he asked, ignoring his other question.

Sherlock's eyes automatically focused on John's lips when he licked them. "Why else does anyone go out to get air?"

"I thought you were doing well," John asked disappointingly.

"I was," Sherlock protested because he hated when he disappointed John.

John turned onto his side so his back faced the other man. "Please use patches next time," he told him as he closed his eyes.

Sherlock couldn't seem to win tonight and he wondered if sex always made things so much more complicated than they needed to be. He scooted closer to John and wrapped around his waist hesitantly. John squirmed for a moment but allowed the contact. He hadn't been lying to Sherlock when he told him he was tired, though that wasn't necessarily the reason he turned down sex.

Sherlock stayed with him until he was deeply asleep before he kissed him on the forehead and slid out of bed. He was too wired to sleep tonight and he needed to finish the experiment he was working on. Hopefully John would be more agreeable in the morning.

***

John began to toss and turn an hour later. In his nightmare he was back in Afghanistan, the explosions deafening and the screams muffled. He could not get to them all in time, the bleeding soldiers. He began to sweat, to cry, and finally to shout loudly. And yet he was still trapped in his nightmare, unable to wake from it.

It was around two in the morning when Sherlock heard him moaning. He stepped away from his microscope to investigate only to find John thrashing in his bed. His first instinct was to allow him to wake on his own, not wanting to startle him further, but John's cries spurred him into action. He gripped his shoulder and shook him firmly.

"John, wake up. It's just a dream."

John resisted him, hyperventilating from the panic attack his nightmare had trapped him in. He felt overwhelming pain in his shoulder as he rushed out into the rein of fire to drag a dying body to shelter. In his fit, John scratched at himself and his shoulder so hard that blood clotted under his nails.

Sherlock panicked when John began to hurt himself and lifted his tense body so he was sitting up in bed. "John Watson, wake up now!"

John was pulled violently from the dream so fast he didn't know what was real and what wasn't. The flashback had been intense, the first nightmare he'd had since he met Sherlock. He woke gasping and confused and in pain and unable to focus on anything, even his own breathing.

"Just breathe," Sherlock soothed him, pulling John's hand away from his shoulder. "You're all right, you're all right," he repeated.

John's trembling hand allowed this reluctantly. "I've been shot," he panted.

"No, you're here with me," Sherlock told him, hugging him tightly and kissing his forehead. John finally began to come back to himself and his vision began to clear. The tears continued to wet his face as he tried to catch his breath, the realization that he had just had a nightmare and that Sherlock had pulled him out of it was starting to slowly dawn on him.

When he thought he finally had the strength, John sat up straighter and wrapped his arms around Sherlock to bury his face in his neck, getting as close to him as humanly possible. "I've got you," he heard his lover tell him as a hand rubbed his back soothingly.

Sherlock's deep voice close to his ear calmed and grounded him in ways John could not even understand. He gripped him tightly as if he would lose him, as he had lost so many, but Sherlock was real and here and not going anywhere. When finally he felt like he wasn't going to suffocate and could form basic speech, he pulled back as much as his body would let him. "I am so sorry," he insisted. He had never meant for Sherlock to see him like this.

"Why would you be sorry?" Sherlock asked, not understanding.

"For... for..." John struggled to put it into words. For what? For disturbing him? For forcing him to see him like this? None of it would make any sense to Sherlock. "I don’t know. I thought it had all stopped. I..." he stopped for a moment to breathe. "I stopped taking my medication the second night I met you. I suppose this was just... bound to happen," he didn't even know what he was saying anymore, or that any of it made sense, so he shut up and clutched Sherlock to him tighter.

"You don't need medication," Sherlock said firmly, and John responded by removing his face from where he had wedged it in the other man’s long neck and kissed him hard on the lips.

Sherlock immediately kissed him back, his hands rising to cup John's face as his tongue forced its way past his lips. He had become proficient at kissing very quickly and he planned on getting as much practice as John would allow. John kissed back desperately, his tongue sliding against his as if his life depended on it and his body slid into his lap to straddle him until their chests aligned and he could feel the heat between them. It wasn't just a distraction that he needed, but to know that he was alive, that Sherlock was real and permanent.

Sherlock's hands grew more confident as they rubbed down John's back until he squeezed his backside to pull their bodies even closer together. John was more than surprised when his hands squeezed him, but his body went with it willingly and pressed against his to encourage him further.

Never had John needed him so much as right now in this moment. He bit his lip softly in concentration as he began to rock his hips a little desperately down on Sherlock's. He sighed with relief when Sherlock lay back on the bed, pulling John down with him, and thrust up against him to encourage the movement.

John needed to feel his solid need against his and rocked down on him harder. He was shocked that just rutting against each other with all their clothes still on could still feel so good and perfect and right. John pressed his open mouth against his as he breathed heavily and moaned.

Their clothes were an uncomfortable barrier but also provided just the right amount of pressure and friction. John was too desperate for it to remove any clothing, but soon it was still not enough, so he began to frantically pull Sherlock's pants down to let free his erection while still rocking down on him.

Sherlock hissed at the sudden skin to skin contact and helped John push down his own pants so he could get an uninterrupted grab at his ass. John gasped and thrust his own erection down on his desperately. "I need you," he begged, though he didn't know what for specifically. His hand wrapped around his lover's cock and began stroking it hard.

"I'm right here... tell me what you want," Sherlock whispered as he thrust into his lover’s hand.

John grasped both their rock hard cocks in his fist and stroked them together. Before he could think about what he was doing, he brought one of Sherlock's hands up to his lips and sucked his fingers into his mouth as his lover watched avidly. "Your fingers in me..." he blurted out as if he couldn't help himself.

Sherlock’s eyes were glazed over when John looked into them. "In you? Oh... yes of course," Sherlock said, his fingers immediately teasing the cleft of John's ass.

John stroked them both harder as he tried to sink down on Sherlock's beautiful, long fingers. "Please," he pleaded.

Sherlock teased against John's entrance again before he finally pushed one finger into him slowly. John nearly cried again with desperation as he tried his best to relax against the intrusion. It had been a long time. "Yes," he whispered to Sherlock encouragingly. He only now vaguely felt the pain in his shoulder. After all, nothing was better at distracting him from pain than pleasure.

It was difficult for Sherlock to focus on this new experience when John was stroking their cocks with such determination. John arched his back when Sherlock experimentally added a second finger to the first and began to ride them. "Deeper, Sh- Sherlock," he stuttered, until finally he felt his fingers collide against his prostate and he felt a hot shiver run up his spine like electricity. "God, right there!" he cried.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise at John's reaction and he found the spot again. "Here?" he asked with a grin.

John's head was spinning and thick and heavy as Sherlock explored that part of him that had always been so sensitive. "Yes, there, right there..." was all he managed to say as his own hands began to fumble with lack of coordination. He was going to lose it soon, and as much as he never wanted it to end, the desire for relief was too much.

Sherlock's other hand found John's and he helped to stroke them both off. "Come with me."

John managed to nod his head as he felt his own orgasm rising in him like a build up of pressure. "I'm coming," he warned, tensing around Sherlock's finger as he bit his lip hard to try to silence himself. A few more thrusts down, and he was there. "Oh, Sherlock..." he cried as he finally reached his peak.

Sherlock came as he watched John, his mouth opening in a silent scream as he came undone. John collapsed against him as if his entire body had gone boneless. He buried his face in his neck, his limp hand still holding them.

Sherlock pulled his fingers out of John gently and rubbed his lover's back. "Are you all right?"

John ached as he slipped out of Sherlock’s lap to lie beside him. "Yes. Are you?" he asked tentatively, not sure if he had pushed him too far.

"I'm fine," Sherlock told him, kissing John briefly on the lips and pulling the rumbled and neglected covers up around them.

John felt his eyes close in exhaustion. He wouldn't be having any more nightmares tonight. "Will you stay with me?"

"Yes, I will stay and watch over you," Sherlock promised him.

John smiled. "You don't have to stay the whole night. Just until I fall asleep," he whispered, though he was mostly there already.

"Just go to sleep, John," the detective told him quietly.

John passed out very quickly after that, but this time, his old ghosts did not haunt him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place the night before Sherlock's fall.

It had been a stressful couple of weeks with Moriarty getting arrested along with the trial and then the kidnapped children case. 

Sherlock and John hadn't had sex since the day Moriarty was arrested for his 'attempt' at stealing the crown jewels. Sherlock didn't have time for sex. His head was far too stuck in the web that Moriarty had tangled him in. 

Before John, these adventures with Moriarty would be a welcome distraction from the boredom of Sherlock’s life. And yet now, with so much at stake, it was beyond stressful. He fingered the ring box he had hidden away in his coat pocket as he considered his predicament. He had purchased the ring on a whim before all this had started and now he wasn't sure if he would ever get the chance to give it to John.

It was a few moments later when John, recently showered and dressed, walked over to his lover who was staring out the window with his hand in his pocket. He knew Sherlock didn’t even notice him, so his voice was soft so as not to startle him when he asked, "What are you thinking?" 

The emotion was void in his tone, but he was worried about him. Incredibly so. Even though he had only known Sherlock for a short time, he still knew him better than anyone else ever had. And he had never seen him like this.

"I was thinking about the day I met you. It was such a odd coincidence. I hardly ever speak to Stafford but for some reason that morning he was particularly chatty and somehow we got to talking about flatmates..." Sherlock trailed off as the watched the cars and people pass on the street below them.

John wanted to reach out and touch him, but Sherlock looked like a ticking time bomb and he was afraid of what the physical contact might do. But he would be lying if he said he wasn't starved for it and had been for a while, and seeing Sherlock like this frightened him. 

"He set us up, Sherlock, I thought you knew this.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned to walk away, leaving John by the window. "Of course I did. I mean, what are the odds? I could have not been in the talking mood that day and never have met you," he said, sitting down at the desk and opening up John's laptop.

John didn't like feeling like Sherlock was thinking of leaving him somehow. He refused to believe it. He couldn't get rid of him. He would love to see him try. "I like to think you took one look at me and were immediately interested," he tried to tease him to lighten the mood.

Sherlock paused in his manic typing to look up at John. "Possibly... were you asking me out that first night at Angelo's?" he asked curiously.

John had to laugh at that, but the laugh was dry and lacked enthusiasm. "No! I didn't know I wanted you at first, Sherlock."

"When did you know?" Sherlock asked a question that he had wondered since the moment John had kissed him back.

Now it was John’s turn to roll his eyes. "Why are you asking all these questions right now? You need to sleep. Please come to bed with me."

"No reason... you go to sleep. I'm not tired," Sherlock brushed him off and turned all his focus back to the computer, intent on ignoring John until he went away.

John frowned. He wasn't getting rid of him that easily. He crossed his arms over his chest. "What are you doing?" he asked a little impatiently. "Please don't ignore me, Sherlock. Don't shut me out. We are a team, or at least I thought we were."

"Well then, maybe you thought wrong," Sherlock snapped while not taking his eyes off of the bright screen in front of him. It was better to push John away now. Then maybe later it wouldn't hurt as much.

John blinked in surprise, but then narrowed his eyes angrily. "You don't mean that. You are upset with me for whatever reason and trying to push me away. But you can't get rid of me. Now come to bed," he demanded.

Sherlock hated the way John could use that tone with him and somehow get him to obey. He slammed the laptop shut in his anger. "Fine," he gritted out as he stood and moved to walk past John. 

John allowed his lover to walk past him and followed him slowly. "Please, talk to me," he whispered once they were in the bedroom.

Sherlock was jerking off his clothes in an aggravated fashion. "I do not want to talk. If I wanted to talk, I would."

John remained still and glared at his lover. "Why are you undressing? What makes you think I want to fuck after you've refused to touch me for weeks?" he crossed his arms over his chest defensively.

"Because you always want to fuck," Sherlock told him coldly.

John didn't let on how much that hurt. "You think if you fuck me now I'll stop bothering you? No, Sherlock, that's not how it works."

"Of course it is. I fuck you and you lay off me about 'talking'," Sherlock hissed as he sat down naked on the bed. "Get over here," he demanded.

John didn't move and held his own emotion at bay. "No. You fuck me because deep down you love me and you want to do it too, not because you want me to shut up. It's not why I told you to come to bed.”

Sherlock's whole body was tense like a tiger before it pounces. "John, come here," he repeated in a very low voice.

John glared angrily at Sherlock before he finally walked over to the bed and sat on the opposite side with plenty of distance between them. His body was just as tense. "Please tell me what you're thinking of doing," he whispered.

Sherlock lay down and stared up at the ceiling. "We wait and see what Moriarty's next move is. What else can we do?" he shrugged, but he knew the police were already suspicious of him. Moriarty had already made his next move and Sherlock just had to wait for the fallout.

John relaxed and settled more comfortably on the bed, still in a sitting position. "You know what his next move is, don't you? He seems to think you both have a lot in common..."

"Well, he's wrong. I'm not like him... I have you," Sherlock said up to the ceiling, his tone softer now, more thoughtful.

John shook his head and finally lay down beside the other man. "I don't change you, Sherlock, I have no control over who you are," he told him honestly.

But Sherlock knew that wasn't true. Without John, he could have easily been Moriarty’s equal, not his rival. It wasn't a conversation he wanted to have, so he pulled his lover close to him. "Get some sleep, John."

John allowed Sherlock to pull his still clothed body against his. "So you really don't want to fuck me?" he asked after a minute when neither of them spoke.

"I can't. Not right now, Not with Moriarty in my head," Sherlock tried to explain.

John's heart sank and filled with anger, but not for Sherlock. "I'm going to kill him myself," he growled.

Sherlock ran his fingers through John's hair and kissed his forehead. "I know you want to."

John could not hold back any longer and melted into Sherlock, kissing him hard on the lips but making it brief. "The world isn't going to believe him. There are people that know you for real. He won't win," he whispered.

"Maybe... but if he does, I want you to know… You have changed me."

"No, I haven't," John argued, and turned his back to his lover.

Sherlock wrapped his arm around his lover from behind and kissed the back of his neck. "Of course, you have. Don't argue with me, you know you can't win."

John melted against him again and twisted in Sherlock's arms to press his body once again against his. "I don't want to change you."

"It's not a bad change. You make me ... more."

John blushed and hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice in the dim light of the room. "I need you, you know," he told him, and he didn’t mean sexually. "I can't lose you."

"You won't. I'll always come for you," Sherlock promised him.

John wanted to believe that. But why did he feel like something awful was going to happen? That Sherlock was still holding something back from him? "Then don't do this alone. Let me help you with Moriarty. Promise me you will," he tried.

Sherlock had learned some things about placating a lover since he and John had become intimate. So he did not tell him that there was nothing he could do to help. Instead, he lied. "I promise."

John sighed. "I don't believe you, but thank you."

Sherlock pulled the blankets up to cover them and reached over John to turn off the light. John closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. "Are you going to sleep, or are you just going to stare at me while I sleep all night?"

"I like watching you sleep," Sherlock admitted.

"And I like making you come, so you better solve this soon and start sleeping with me again," John muttered sleepily.

Sherlock smiled even if John could not see it in the dark. Sherlock did not smile often, only when he was acting or excited about a case, and now, with John. "I will do my best."

"That's not good enough.”

"Go to sleep, John," Sherlock told him softly, leaning over him to kiss him on the lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three years after Sherlock's fall, and John is about to finally lose hope.

Three years after, Sherlock still dreamt of falling. He dreamed of the look on John's face. Sherlock would wake suddenly from a nightmare and immediately text his brother to make sure John was still okay. 

Chasing down the rest of Moriarty's associates had taken him longer than he thought it would, but he couldn't stop until he was sure the web had been completely destroyed. And yet this secret life of hunting down criminals did not fill the void that was left inside of him. He didn’t even feel better after he started using drugs again.

The mission is complete. I want to come home. SH

Then come home. But do not contact John. MH

The order was clear, but Sherlock was never was good at following orders from Mycroft. He had already made up his mind. He would go back to London. He would find John and then maybe he wouldn’t feel so empty anymore. 

Things could be just like they were.

***

John hadn't apologized. He wasn't sure he wanted to. Lost in his own thoughts and his own depression, he lay on his side with his back to Mark wondering if his boyfriend was ever going to bring it up. He waited for the argument passively as he stared with watery eyes at the wall. 

He had moved in with Mark soon after Sherlock's death. After all, 221B was too full of ghosts for him to remain there. So when he heard that his old army mate and occasional ex-lover was in town, he shyly showed up at his door and never left. 

Yet Mark had found a very different John Watson at his door that day. He was a shell of his former self with a gimp leg and equally crippling depression. This John Watson carried a gun with him. It had only one bullet.

John could feel Mark's come drip down his thighs and he shifted uncomfortably. He had reached orgasm and cried out Sherlock's name, closed his eyes, and pretended it was him. 

Mark sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and stared at the ceiling. He had fought at John's side in Afghanistan, but John was fighting a different kind of war now and he didn't think there was anyway to help him through it this time. Mark never asked John about him, but of course he knew all about the great Sherlock Holmes through John's blog. He never asked what their relationship had been defined as, but it was obvious that John loved him deeply. At first, Mark thought he could compete with a ghost, but he and John had been together for almost three years now and he still felt as distant from him as the day he showed up at his flat.

"It's almost been three years, John. I'm not asking you to forget him but can you at least not bring him into our bed?" Mark asked quietly. He didn't think it was a lot to ask for.

John wasn't sure why he was with Mark. He didn't love him. He was certain of this because he knew he would never love again. His heart was permanently broken and there was no repairing the damage, yet he clung onto some senseless hope that Sherlock was somehow still alive. That grip on hope was slipping more and more every day.

He supposed he was with him for company. Maybe he kept Mark around as a way to make it more difficult to kill himself. And yet he did love Mark once, more as a friend and ally and fellow soldier than as a lover. And now he felt like he was looking at him from a distance, from a memory. "I'm sorry," he finally whispered the apology, only because he felt it was expected of him. "I didn't know what I was saying."

Mark knew he could get angry, but at this point, he had no anger left inside of him. He knew he was fighting a losing battle. So instead of getting angry, he tried a different approach. "Tell me about him?" he asked.

That brought John halfway back to reality. Why was he asking? They had never talked about the details of who Sherlock Holmes was. He was always the giant elephant in the room. He brought his hands over his eyes to hold back his emotion. "No, Mark.”

Mark wrapped his arms around him from behind, not knowing that this was the exact way Sherlock had held John last. "Maybe it would help. Did I ever tell you that his brother threatened me not long after we started dating?"

It took a moment for John to realize what he had just said. He turned slightly in Mark's arms. "What? Mycroft? What... what did he say?"

"He basically threatened to shove his umbrella up my ass if I treated you badly... but in more posh terms than that," Marks said, trying to make John smile. "He's very creepy."

John didn't smile, nor was he surprised. "I know he is. You want to know who Sherlock was? The complete opposite of Mycroft.”

"So he wasn't a pain in the ass?" Mark kept teasing, because keeping the conversation light kept John talking and that was good. "I saw that picture of him, the one you had on your blog. Why in the world did he have a deer stalker on?"

John twisted around in Mark's embrace, though he kept his own arms to himself and stared sadly at his lover’s collar bone. There was a scar there from when an enemy soldier sliced him with a dirty knife. John had stitched it up himself. He found himself tracing the raised, red line and felt his own shoulder ache. "He was an even larger pain in the ass," he told him simply. "And he hated the hat. He wore it once in hopes of hiding his face from the newspapers."

"He was a pain but you loved him very much. You still love him."

John's body stiffened at the thought. "But he's gone, and I have you, and you’re so good to me. I don't deserve you," he whispered, reaching out to touch his cheek.

"Yes you do. You deserve everything," Mark told him sadly. "You still meeting up with the DI sometime today?" he asked, and kissed John on the forehead before hopping out of bed. He had to get ready for work even if it was John's day off.

But no, John thought, he didn't deserve him. He had been cheating on him since the beginning. Women, men... it didn't matter. Yet none of it filled the void Sherlock left in his soul. "Yes. I suppose so," he whispered, though he made no intention of getting out of bed.

"He seems like a good bloke."

John stared at the wall forlornly. "Lestrade is a good man, but I don't need to see him.” Lestrade was just too familiar to him. He reminded him too much of Sherlock and the only reason he wanted to see him was to make sure he was still alive, anyway. Maybe he did it out of some strange desire to do right by Sherlock’s memory. 

"Well, you can always call and cancel," Mark pointed out, but he knew John wouldn't.

John only shrugged, already ten miles away.

Mark sighed. "I'll see you later," he told his lover as he left the bedroom. He didn't bother kissing him goodbye. John wouldn't have noticed anyway.

John didn’t notice until he began to feel cold. Ten minutes later, he forced himself out of bed and limped over to the shower. When he stood naked under the steady stream of warm water, he closed his eyes and imagined Sherlock's long arms wrapping around him. He imagined the deep baritone of his smooth voice and his gentle, warm breathe on his neck.

***

Greg Lestrade had kept in touch with John through the years because John was a good bloke even if Sherlock was really the only thing they had in common. And yet lately John seemed to grow even more distant. He stopped coming to Greg with overly elaborate conspiracy theories on how Sherlock could still be alive. He used to have a new one every time, but now they talked about the weather. 

But this time it was the other way around. Greg had something to say and he just hoped that John would take it well or at least take it better than Greg himself was. He would never live it down that he had fainted when he found none other than Sherlock bloody Holmes in his flat the other night, living and breathing and as irritating as ever.

John limped into the pub and found Lestrade at the bar, waving to him. The pain in his leg had returned almost immediately after Sherlock jumped off that roof and he was hit by the bike. Psychosomatic or not, the pain was real. 

John sat down beside Lestrade. "Hello, Greg," he gave him a short, fake smile and ordered a pint.

"How is everything?" Greg asked his friend even when he already knew.

"You know... the same..." John trailed off and rubbed his aching leg. "How is everything with you?" he changed the subject. He knew Lestrade was going through a messy divorce just as Sherlock had predicted.

"Everything’s fine... but John, there is something I have to tell you but I don't really know how to say it," Greg sighed in frustration. "You know how you used to come up with all those theories as to how Sherlock was still alive?"

John immediately tensed. "What? No, Greg, I was wrong," he whispered, hoping that would be the end of it.

"Well, yes, I thought you were... but... but you weren't, John. You were right," Greg said, trying to break the news to him gently. "Sherlock faked his own death. I know because he showed up at my flat the other night."

John immediately dropped his cane, the loud noise causing everyone in the pub to turn and stare. No, it couldn't be... Lestrade was either wrong or lying to him, and he was not okay with either of those two possibilities. "I don't have to listen to this," he announced as he stumbled and turned to walk out.

Lestrade grabbed his arm and John turned back around quickly. "You told me last week you were seeing him everywhere. You're not going crazy, John. The wanker has probably been stalking you since he returned to London."

Suddenly, John wished they had decided to meet in a less public place. "No, no, no... I was wrong, Lestrade, he's gone," he frantically shook his head, refusing to listen or even meet his friend in the eyes.

Lestrade let him go, not wanting to embarrass him. He only wanted to give John a little warning. "Alright," he agreed gently, and let him go.

John suppressed an anxiety attack and forced his lungs to take a few deep breathes. "Why are you saying this? I saw his dead body, I watched him fall off that roof... it wasn't fake.”

"I don't know how he did it, but I suspect that Molly Hooper and having a brother as powerful as Mycroft both had something to do with it. All I know… is that he is alive.”

John finally looked up at Greg distrustfully. "How could you know that?" he demanded.

"I came home from work last night and he was just there, in my flat... I actually passed out," Lestrade admitted. "When I came to, someone had moved me to the couch and he was gone. But I swear it was him."

That wasn't enough proof for John. He had seen his body. "Were you drunk?"

"No! I know it was him," Lestrade insisted. "Just... be prepared if he shows up at your flat. Alright?"

John couldn't believe what he was saying. He wouldn’t allow himself. He had given up long ago and he would be damned if Lestrade placed even a slight bit of hope in his heart again. "Goodbye, Greg," he announced, paid the bartender, and limped quickly out of the pub.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock pays a visit to John after three years of being dead.

It was dark and dreary nights like this that made John miss 221 Baker Street more than ever. He missed the noises Ms. Hudson would make while baking downstairs and the smells that wafted up to their flat. Sherlock would always complain about them, but they always made John feel warm and cozy. He missed Ms. Hudson’s mumblings and the sound of the telly being up far too loud and the warm greeting he would receive every time he walked in the door. He missed the comfortable, lived-in couches and the view of the street from the windows. But most of all, he missed that bloody awful violin. 

John shivered as he rushed into his flat and quickly shut the door against the unforgiving London air. No one greeted him at his flat, now. 

At least, not at first. 

***

Sherlock knew Lestrade would lead him to John eventually which was why he showed himself to him in the first place. Mycroft had done an amazing job at hiding John from him, and now that he finally found him, he wasn't quite sure how to proceed. If the way Lestrade reacted when he saw him alive was any indication of what John would do, he knew it wouldn’t go well.

Sherlock stared at the closed door to John's flat for a few minutes as if he were trying to prepare himself for something he knew he could never fully be prepared for. Finally, he decided to do what he came there for and reached out with his fist to knock on the door. The surge of emotion he felt when it was done was overpowering and indefinable and he stood awkwardly frozen as he waited.

John looked up at the clock on the wall. He didn't know who would be at his door this time of night but he had absolutely no intention of speaking to any solicitors. Not in the mood, he ignored it and hoped whoever it was would go away.

A moment later when John only heard them fiddle with the door more and then heard something else that sounded a lot like a lock being picked, he stomped over and flung it open. That was when he stumbled backwards and felt his knees go limp. He had come face to face with a ghost. 

"No, no, no... no!" John screamed. "NO!" 

He covered his eyes, backed up against the wall, and shoved his shaking hand into a pocket to retrieve his medication. He was hallucinating. "You're not real... go away, go away!"

"John... calm down," Sherlock told him, and grabbed his arms to still him. "I'm here. I'm real."

John opened his mouth to scream again when he felt the phantom’s arms grab him and his pills spilled onto the floor in a scattered mess and he had no choice but to open his eyes and   
realize that Sherlock really was standing alive and well right in front of him. 

Then, John’s reflexes took over. He punched him in the face. Hard. "I WATCHED YOU DIE!"

Sherlock was flung backwards from the strike and adjusted his jaw sorely. "It was a trick,” he tried to explain, but made no move to protect himself if John decided to hit him again. He deserved whatever he did to him.

John did feel like if Sherlock came any closer, he would punch him even harder. But he knew that no matter how hard he hit him, it would only be a minute fraction of the pain he himself felt. Burying his face in his hands, John slowly slid down the wall and was consumed in a panic attack.

Sherlock couldn’t stand it any longer and sat down beside the other man to pull him close, not caring if the action was unwanted. "Just breathe."

John panicked even more when he felt those arms embrace him again. He shoved Sherlock away, still hyperventilating. "How!?" he demanded, the only word he could speak.

"I had some help. I had to make everyone think I died. There was no other way," Sherlock spoke softly.

John trembled. "Explain it to me! How you did it. Right now," he demanded. "I... I saw your dead body!"

Sherlock sighed and forced his arms to hang idly at his sides instead. "You saw what I wanted you to see... I had someone drug you," Sherlock admitted. "The man that hit you on his bike…"

That man on the bike had given John a concussion. "If you come near me, I swear to god I will kill you!" he shouted.

Sherlock growled at that, not liking that this was not going the way he wanted it to. "I did it for you, to save you!" he yelled, ignoring John's threats and staying close.

John didn't lift his head from his hands. "Why didn't you tell me? Why did you hide from me and why are you here now?!" he cried.

Sherlock tried to pull him into a hug again. "I couldn't tell you. If you knew they would have killed you. Moriarty's men. I had to track down everyone who worked for Moriarty before I could come back."

John tried weakly to resist Sherlock's embrace but ended up collapsing in his arms, so breathless that he felt faint. Sherlock used it to his advantage and to practically pull John into his lap. "I'm so sorry."

John only allowed himself a brief moment of contact with Sherlock before he shoved him away and began to focus his shaking hands on picking up the pills from the ground. He was once again speechless as his tears dropped to the floor.

Sherlock watched as John shakily placed the pills back in the bottle. "Let me help," he offered, reaching down to pick up the medicine. John collapsed against the wall again and watched as he allowed Sherlock to pick up his shattered pieces.

"It's going to be alright, John. I'm going to fix this," Sherlock said. "We will just get your things and move back into Baker Street and everything will be like it should again."

John began to shake his head. "No, no, no!" he cried out. "You think you can just waltz back into my life like this? I live here now!"

Sherlock placed another pill back into its bottle and looked around the flat, taking it all in quickly. He didn't want to think about what he had deduced and that John had another lover. "That's ridiculous, John, you are coming home with me," he dismissed, and stood up from the floor. He reached down to help John back on his feet, but the other man resisted.

"Don't... don't," John warned. "I can't just... go back to you, Sherlock..." he trailed off. "After you died, Mark was the only thing that helped me through it."

His jaw briefly clenching was the only sign of Sherlock’s true emotions. "Then I owe him a debt but you do not owe him anything," he replied firmly. When John finally stood, Sherlock pulled him close again so their foreheads touched. "Come home with me. Please, John. I need you to forgive me."

John pulled away again, though it physically pained him. "Stop it. Don't make this even more difficult," he whispered.

"I don't know what to do," Sherlock confessed for the first time. John had never heard such helplessness in his voice before.

John didn't know what to do either. This had all happened so fast. The past few years of his life had been a lie and he was far too overwhelmed to do anything then but give in a little and lean his forehead back against Sherlock's and close his eyes. Sherlock wanted desperately to capture those lips he had been dreaming about for what felt like an eternity, but just when he was going to, the door opened.

John barely noticed when Mark walked into the hallway and stopped dead in his tracks. "What is going on here?" he asked calmly, though Sherlock could tell he was ready for a fight.

Sherlock's arms tightened around John for a moment before they hesitantly dropped to his sides. His first instinct was to just ignore the other man and hope he would go away, but he knew from his expression that it wouldn’t happen. "I'm just an old friend dropping by to say hello. I just surprised John."

"You're Sherlock?" he asked simply.

"Yes. And you must be John's fuck for the week... or wait, you must just be the boyfriend he constantly cheats on," Sherlock smiled, unable to contain himself.

John dropped his hands from his face and stared at Sherlock in shock. "Sherlock!" he shouted. "You don't know anything! You have no right!"

Sherlock's jaw clenched again in the effort it took to not say anything else that might send John farther away from him. "My apologies," he forced out through gritted teeth, and pushed past Mark and out the door. John watched as he left, terrified to let him go yet unable to stop him. 

"John?" Mark's voice shook him back to reality. 

Sherlock wouldn't go far, of course. He told himself that John just needed time to think. He hadn't come back to him as easily as he thought he would and he couldn't understand it at all. And yet he couldn't go back to Baker Street tonight. That flat was theirs and Sherlock would not go back without John. So he would continue to live on the streets. He would be able to keep an eye on him better that way, anyway.

John did not look at his boyfriend. "I didn't know, Mark, I thought he was dead until he just showed up.”

"He just showed up?" Mark repeated, mostly to himself. "What was all that he said about you fucking other people?"

John was a lot of things, including an awful liar. He couldn’t force himself to lie to Mark's face, but he wasn't going to tell him the truth, either. "He is trying to turn you against me."

"But he's back now... so there is no need for him to do that. You will go running back to him as soon as you can," Mark told him sadly.

John began sobbing again. He swallowed a handful of his pills. "No... no, Mark. I can't forgive him," he argued, though he was unsure.

"Okay, okay," Mark soothed him gently and took the remaining pills away from him, afraid of him overdosing. "Come on, I'll tuck you into bed and fix you a cup of tea, sound good?"

John nodded and gripped Mark for support. It was hard to stand when the world was crashing down around him. Mark grabbed him to keep him upright and steered him into the bedroom. 

With Sherlock alive, Mark actually felt a bit of hope. At least now he wouldn't have to compete with a ghost but with a man, because no matter what anyone said, Sherlock Holmes was still just a man. "It will be okay. I will take care of you," he promised.

Sherlock never took care of John like Mark did. That was part of the reason he stayed with him for so long. He did not remind him of Sherlock when everything else did. "I'm sorry," John told him, suddenly too drugged up to even know what he was apologizing for.

"Just get some sleep," Mark sighed into the darkness.

***

John woke up from his drug induced sleep in the middle of the night. Mark had tucked him in, set a glass of water on the nightstand, and then bedded down beside him. He opened his eyes and gazed at his sleeping friend and lover. He reached out to softly caress his face and leaned in to kiss him on the lips gently so as not to wake him. And then, got out of bed.

Had it really all happened? Had Sherlock come back to life without a single scratch on him? He had to find out. He had to see him again. And he was pretty sure where he could find him.

***

Sherlock Holmes had always appreciated homeless people. He had spent quite a lot of time with them after he was kicked out of UNI and strung out on drugs. Sherlock blamed Mycroft for that particular hard, teenage time of his life because his brother had cut him off from his trust funds until he had gotten clean. Being homeless had just been another experiment, but even after he was back on his feet (thanks to Lestrade), he used the Homeless Network quite frequently. And now that he was on the streets again, they were invaluable.

It had become even colder when John quietly left the flat and he huddled himself in his coat. This time of night, no one was out but the people he needed to find the most. He walked up to the first homeless man he saw and coughed nervously. "Um, excuse me, sir... this may sound strange... but where can I find Sherlock?" he asked timidly.

The old man eyed him warily. "Who's asking?"

John shifted nervously on his feet. Would this man turn him away if he told him who he was? "John... John Watson," he told him nervously.

"Ah, you're the doctor... Sherlock Holmes is dead. But if you're still looking, there is a man that hangs around Church Street under the bridge... he moves around though," the bum told him.

Just hearing those words again, true or not, almost sent him back into hysterics. But John did have standards. He wasn't going to lose it on the streets in front of a homeless man at two in the morning. "Alright," he said. "Oh, here." He quickly slipped him some money and headed off towards Church Street, clutching his loaded gun in his pocket.

Under the bridge, Sherlock was arguing with his current drug dealer. "If you keep going up on your prices you will be out of a customer," he told him angrily. 

The dealer leered at him. "I told you there are other ways of paying me... with your mouth and that ass I could keep you high all the time."

Sherlock snorted at that. "Branching out, are we? Trying to get into the pimp trade? Probably due to your obvious issues with your mother," he diagnosed angrily, and the very large man immediately responded by slamming Sherlock violently into the wall. 

A few of the other homeless people watched the commotion but made no move to interfere. John, drawn to the voice of Sherlock, waited until the situation got out of hand before he brought out his gun and shot it loudly up into the sky. It tore through the chilly night air and disappeared into the full moon. "Get the fuck away from him or I'll call the police… if I don't shoot you first. And don't that think I won't, because I’ve shot men for less," he threatened.

Everyone scrambled like mice, even the dealer. "Easy there, mister..." he said with his hands up before he suddenly took off running, leaving only John and Sherlock under the bridge. 

"Did you change your mind?" Sherlock asked when the silence got to be too much for him. He remained leaning against the wall because he didn't trust his legs to support him. "Are you going to come home with me?"

John didn't move, the gun still pointing up in the air and a scowl on his face. "Don't be pathetic. It doesn't suit you," he told him sharply, and Sherlock hissed like an angry cat at that word. "I just came to see if what happened earlier really happened. And I see it has."

Sherlock pushed himself off the wall and stumbled a little as he walked closer to John. "I'm not the one who was sobbing on the floor a few hours ago,” he pointed out.

John slowly lowered the gun to his side, but he still gripped it hard. "And I'm not the one who was just going to get raped by a drug dealer under a bridge!" he shouted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be over dramatic. Still carrying around that pistol, I see."

"The pistol already came in handy," John snapped at him. "Is this what you've been doing all this time? Whoring around the streets for drugs?!" he demanded.

"No, of course not. I just back to London two weeks ago."

"So for the past two weeks you've been using drugs on the streets and almost getting raped?!"

"It's no different than those prescription drugs you seem so fond of now."

"It is very different, Sherlock!" John snapped back at him defensively. "And you know why I take them!"

"You seem to be getting along fine. How long did it take you before you jumped into someone else's bed? Did you at least wait until after my funeral?" Sherlock hissed.

John gripped the gun tighter with anger. "Mark is an old friend of mine from the Army. You left me, Sherlock, and I thought you were dead. I wasn't cheating on you!"

Sherlock growled and turned away from John, agitatedly running a hand through his hair and gripping fistfuls of it tightly, hoping the pain would help him focus.

John grew less tense when he grew worried. "Sherlock..." he began, taking some brave steps closer. "I... I didn't come here to fight with you."

"Then why did you come?" Sherlock asked, letting go of his hair but still not looking at John. "I told you I was sorry. I don't know what more I can do."

John stared down at his own shoes and took his finger off the trigger. "I told you. I wanted to make sure... what I saw earlier was real," he mumbled. "I... I wanted to see you for myself again."

Sherlock was suddenly right in front of John, gripping the sides of his face. "And now that you have you will come home," he said forcibly, ignoring the loaded gun in his hand.

John gasped when Sherlock was suddenly right in front of him. "Sherlock, please..." he pulled away. "You're high. Please don't wander the streets."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped in defeat and he let go of John with a sigh. "Go back to your lover, John. I'm fine. I'll be around when you come to your senses."

That was when John lost all resolve, stuffed the gun in his pocket, and ran to Sherlock to embrace him as tightly as possible, standing on his toes and burying his face in his neck. Sherlock's arms immediately tightened around him. He wanted to tell him then the three words he never had the chance to say, but he kept his mouth firmly closed, not wanting to pressure John anymore than he already was. 

John continued to embrace him as if at any moment Sherlock would suddenly drop dead or turn to dust in his arms. But his body was solid and warm and real against him and he tried not to break out into sobs again. So when he felt the tears rise up and threaten to overflow, he did the only thing he knew would stop them and he kissed Sherlock so hard it almost suffocated them both.

Sherlock gasped into John's mouth, and when his mind quickly caught up with his body, he kissed John back hungrily and shoved the smaller man roughly up against the brick wall. He hadn’t felt arousal since he left John, and suddenly, the build up of lust inside of him was all consuming.

John almost had the wind knocked out of him and he immediately lost himself in the moment. He wrapped his opened legs around Sherlock and didn't care if the entire world watched them fuck against a dirty wall in the streets.

Sherlock gripped John's thighs and lifted him up effortlessly, grinding his now raging erection against John's groin as if he really were fucking him. John cried out against his lips as he gripped Sherlock hard and thrust back eagerly against him. It wasn't enough, it possibly could never be enough, but the friction was delicious as he clawed Sherlock's clothed back and kissed him so hard he felt dizzy from lack of breath.

Sherlock found himself unable to hold back. The feel of John against him and his familiar smell had overloaded his senses and he came in his pants like a randy teenager, moaning John's name as he came undone. John surprised himself then when he felt Sherlock's hard body tense against him and a deep growl echoed his chest as he reached his own peak unexpectedly and tightened his legs around the other man. "Oh, god..." he panted as his body fell limp.

Sherlock held John pinned against the wall as they came down from their bliss. His face buried in his neck, Sherlock absentmindedly worked a hickey onto John's neck as their breathing calmed. John was suddenly boneless and weak, but his grip on him was firm and unbreakable. When he felt him mark him, he forced his body to move. 

"No, don't," John protested weakly. Sherlock growled and bit down hard on his neck in relation, knowing John was trying to push him away because he didn't want anyone to see evidence of what they had just done.

John's knees buckled again when Sherlock bit down on that spot that only he knew was very sensitive for him, and all resolve once again dissolved. It didn't last long, however, and when he came back to his senses, he pulled away from Sherlock with wet eyes. "I said not to do that," he told him.

Sherlock huffed and sat John back steadily on his feet. John pulled away and brushed himself off, avoiding his stare and wiping his eyes again. "I... I have to go. Please don't get yourself killed, Sherlock... again.”

Sherlock's hands clenched to keep himself from reaching out for John again. "Fine."

John finally looked into Sherlock’s eyes. "Promise me," he demanded, though he didn't specify any further.

"I'll be fine...go," Sherlock said, pushing John away from him before he changed his mind and decided to kidnap him.

John was unsatisfied, but he was afraid that if he stayed one more second, he would never leave. Without saying another word, he turned away from Sherlock, stuffing his idle hands in his pockets and walked back towards Mark's flat on unsteady legs.

Sherlock watched him go, never looking away from John's form until he was out of sight. When he was gone, he leaned heavily against the same wall and shut his eyes, wanting nothing more than to delete their last encounter together because it hurt too much to think about.

John slipped back into the flat, saw that Mark was still deeply asleep, and stepped into the shower. He pressed his back flat against the wall, closed his eyes, and tried to remember how Sherlock's desperate body felt against his.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes off of the drugs.

A few days later, Greg Lestrade was at the end of his rope. He knew he was going to end up killing Sherlock or Sherlock was going to end up killing him, but he still couldn't just give up on him. After that confusing night under the bridge with John, Sherlock had immediately decided to go off the drugs. Yet instead of cutting back slowly, he stopped cold turkey which led him quickly into an epic battle of withdrawal. 

A few hours ago, Greg had to handcuff Sherlock to his flat's radiator to keep him from clawing his own skin off. Now Sherlock was on his couch, shivering and sweating at the same time with his head in Greg’s lap. Greg felt silly reading his case files out loud to him until his throat felt raw, but it seemed to be the only thing that really settled the other man down. 

But Greg couldn’t keep it up much longer. He felt like he had been awake for days. He had even taken time off of work to stay home and make sure Sherlock got clean, but now, the sentences on the page in front of him were starting to blur together incoherently. He knew it was time to bring in reinforcement. So he picked up his phone to send a text.

Sherlock is off the drugs and not in a good way. Do you think you could bring an IV from the clinic over to my flat? He can't keep anything down. - GL

Greg knew it was playing dirty appealing to the medical doctor in John. But it had been heartbreaking listening to Sherlock cry for John while in the throes of the worst parts of the withdrawal. He just wanted his friends to be happy again. He also wanted his home and his job back.

The notification sound on John's phone woke him with a start. He had fallen asleep in his office again with his head on his desk and his body ached tremendously. He rubbed his eyes and looked around to make sure no one had seen him before he looked at his phone and his heart sank. 

He spent the next hour trying to decide what to do. After what happened a few nights ago, he had been avoiding Mark as much as he could. He had already decided to leave him after Sherlock predictably ruined their relationship, but he had no other place to go and he was afraid to be alone.

It was raining that night when he left the clinic with medication and IV fluids and a very strong sense of uncertainty. He was soaking wet when he knocked hesitantly on Lestrade's door. Greg let him in quietly. "Thanks for coming."

John nearly dropped his cane and the bag of equipment when he saw Sherlock unconscious on the couch. Yet he stayed where he was in the doorway. "He looks awful, Greg... why did he go off of the drugs like this? Did you make him do it?"

"No, god, no. He just came here and told me not to let him take any more drugs."

John felt a pang of guilt run through him. "I don't understand him," he sighed, walking into the flat and staring down at him sadly. It was hard to see him like this, especially when the memory of his dead, broken body was still so fresh in his mind.

"Who does understand? It's Sherlock," Greg sighed as if that explained everything. The lack of sleep was making him bitter. "Can we get him hooked up to the IV? I don't even know the last time he ate or drank anything."

John took a deep breath because he didn’t want to get emotional and sat down on the couch beside Sherlock as if he were just any old patient. He busied himself with readying the IV. "He can probably outlive a camel without water. There should be experimental studies done on him."

Greg snorted at that. "There probably have been and he's done them all on himself."

John still didn't look at his ex's face as he gently applied alcohol to his arm and slid the IV into his arm. Sherlock twitched and groaned and tried to pull his arm away from the pin prick of the needle. "No," he protested drowsily.

John held a firm grip on Sherlock's arm. "Shhhh," he soothed as he allowed the IV to drip.

"John," Sherlock whispered, his voice harsh from screaming.

"He's been talking gibberish for awhile now," Lestrade warned.

John tried to remain distant as he monitored his fluids. "Shhh," he continued to soothe Sherlock gently. "I'm here to fix you up. What were you thinking, doing this to yourself?"

Sherlock grabbed John's hand in a weak grip. "Please don’t leave me, John," he begged.

John did not resist Sherlock reaching out for him, but his walls were still up. He knew Sherlock and he knew that this could just be an elaborate scheme to manipulate him. "Stop it, Sherlock," he demanded. "This isn't like you. You need to come out of this."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said with a sob.

John finally couldn't hear any more of it, genuine or not, and he reached out to smooth Sherlock's curled locks out of his face. "I know you are. Calm down. You need to get well so you can eat," he told him. 

Sherlock shut his eyes again because the light made his head pound even more. "Should we call Mycroft?" Greg asked hesitantly.

John picked up a damp cloth from the table and wiped Sherlock’s forehead. "No, he wouldn't be any help. He would only make things worse like he always does.” The last person John wanted to see was Mycroft. He was convinced he had something big to do with Sherlock’s fake death and the fact that he kept it from him for so long made him furious. 

"You want to help me move him to the bedroom?" Lestrade asked, because since he had John here he may as well take advantage. Sherlock was surprisingly heavy for someone so thin.

John sighed. No, he didn't want to do it, but Lestrade sounded so helpless. He wasn't going to leave him with Sherlock like this. "Alright," he agreed. "We're going to move you, Sherlock," he warned him softly.

"No, the earth’s moving too fast," Sherlock protested.

John ignored him and focused on Lestrade. "I'll take his legs," he told him.

Lestrade sighed at getting the end of Sherlock that did the talking, but he hefted the detective up from under his arms. "Do you know how much longer he will be like this? I barely remember the first time but it felt like weeks."

"Without a relapse, another twenty-four hours," John said, and once Sherlock was settled down on the bed, he sat down on its edge and leaned over him. “He’ll be back to lying and scheming and ruining lives and breaking…. ” he stopped abruptly before he let it slip that Sherlock had broken his heart.

Greg politely acted like he didn’t notice it. "I don't know if I can do this for another twenty-four hours," he admitted. "I haven't slept since he got here. I know you think Mycroft will make it worse but maybe calling him in to babysit will be easier than taking him to a hospital."

That was when John came to a decision. Anything to prevent Mycroft from being involved, he told himself. "I'll babysit him. You get some rest," he told his friend, though he hoped he would not regret it. 

Greg tried not to let John see his smile, and before John could change his mind, he quickly nodded and shut the door on his way out. 

"I'm not a baby," Sherlock mumbled into the pillow when he was finally alone with John.

"Yes, you are. You're a huge buggering baby," John accused angrily.

Sherlock reached over to wrap his arm around the other man's waist. "Oh, I’ve missed you."

John did not move out of Sherlock's hold but he did not return the embrace, either. "I'm not staying. I'm just babysitting you until you get better," he told him.

"No, you must stay with me," Sherlock told him bossily.

John sighed and gently removed Sherlock's weak but still stubborn arms off of him. "You can't tell me what to do. Don't make this more difficult than it already is, please," he pleaded again.

"Why can't you just be with me? I don't understand."

John turned his back towards Sherlock, wondering if he could get away with giving him something to make him go to sleep and shut up. "You broke my heart, Sherlock," he told him tiredly. "And I spent three years more depressed than I've ever been."

"But I'm here now. Doesn't that move anything?" Sherlock asked.

John shook his head sadly. "I gave up on you, Sherlock. You were gone for too long. I tried to move on. I'm with Mark," he tried to explain, though it wasn’t entirely the truth and never had been.

"You're not happy with him. Why do you stay with him?" Sherlock asked as if he already knew the answer. 

John tensed and huffed in annoyance. "He respects me. He treats me well. He fucks me every night," he told him. All the things Sherlock never did. “And he doesn’t make me watch him die.”

"But you don't love him!" Sherlock yelled as he tried to sit up in the bed.

"Don't tell me who I do and don't love, Sherlock. I do love him. We've been through war together!" John cried out.

That shut Sherlock up rather quickly. He lay back down, stared up at the ceiling, and disappeared into his own head for a moment. "I'm feeling better you can go now," he mumbled to John.

John actually felt bad then for being too harsh on him. "I'm not leaving you unattended.”

"I don't want you here." Sherlock rolled over onto his side so his back was to John. "Go back to your boring flat with your boring boyfriend and your boring life."

John didn’t know he could possibly feel more hurt. "I... I'm going to leave him. Congratulations, you have successfully ruined yet another relationship for me," he admitted, holding back tears. "But I'm not coming back to you."

"Why are you going to leave him if you love him?" Sherlock mocked.

John sighed and slid further onto the bed to rub his aching leg. "I will always love him. But I'm not in love with him," he muttered.

"That makes no sense whatsoever," Sherlock criticized. "You either love someone or you don't."

"There is a difference between loving someone and being in love with them, Sherlock. Even you can understand that," John argued back at him.

Sherlock suddenly shot up in bed. "What I know is that you said you loved me but the second I was gone you were in another man's bed!"

John blinked and shook his head. No, that isn’t what happened… "Yes, I- I said it... and I meant it," he admitted. "But you are wrong about one thing. I waited a good long while for you, Sherlock. I was in denial about your death for longer than I care to mention, and it wasn't until I had lost all hope and was ready to curl up and die myself that I found Mark!"

"I should have never have come back to London,” Sherlock huffed.

"And would you never have told me you were alive?" John accused. "Sherlock, please just rest. I will be here when you wake up. I'm not going anywhere," he tried to offer, because he didn’t think he could bear much more of this.

Sherlock turned his back on John again. "I will tell Mycroft to come and then you can leave.”

John felt another stab of pain. "You would rather have your brother here than me?" he asked. "Sherlock, please don't hurt me more than you already have."

"Don't try to guilt trip me, John. It won't work. I have nothing to feel guilty about." Sherlock lied, hoping to drive the other man away from him. He didn't like John seeing him like this when he was weak and vulnerable and just trying to stop the room from spinning around him. 

John crossed his legs on the bed and stared down at the pattern on Lestrade's bed. He tried to let Sherlock’s insulting words slide off of him and it was a minute before he spoke again. "So what now? What do you plan to do? Are you going to start working again?" he asked him.’

"I can't think that far ahead right now," Sherlock hissed through clenched teeth as he gripped the sheets into his fists.

John stopped himself from reaching out to touch Sherlock. "The fluids should help. I can give you something to take for the nausea if you think you can hold it down," he offered gently.’  
"It won't stay down," Sherlock admitted.

"Alright," John sighed. "You've seen me at my worst moments, Sherlock. It's okay," he tried.

"No it's not." Sherlock mumbled into the pillow, because it wasn’t.

John sighed. "You should go back to work, Sherlock. And you should move back into 221B. I know Ms. Hudson would love to have you back," he suggested quietly.

"I'm not moving back there without you," Sherlock said firmly.

John slipped his hand into his pocket and subconsciously fiddled with the ring box he kept there. "Fine. I will move back there with you," he decided suddenly. "I cannot afford any other place, anyway," he added the mumbled excuse.

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, John." he said quietly.

John really hoped he would not regret it, but he was already beginning to. "It... it doesn't mean I will take you back. Not like... we were before," he insisted. "We would just be living together."

Sherlock rolled over to look at John. "Whatever you want," he agreed easily. "We will just be.... colleagues... like before."

John removed his hand from his pocket and stared down at them in his lap. They were never just colleagues. "Just... don't make me regret it," he asked.

"I will try not to," Sherlock promised.


	9. Chapter 9

Leaving Mark was harder that John expected it would be. Mark had been deeply upset to let him go but it was clear that he had seen it coming. The truth was that their relationship had ended the moment Sherlock’s ghost stepped through their door and they both knew it.

Yet still, the break up left John depressed and full of self-loathing. For the first time, he was able to realize how much of an awful boyfriend he had been even if their relationship was never been built on promises. John knew Mark deserved someone better, someone who actually had room for him in their heart even when it felt empty.

John was already rethinking his plan to move back into 221 Baker Street the second he walked through its door with whatever belongings he could carry. It was an awful idea, after all. He was falling right back into his old life with Sherlock’s midnight violin playing and Ms. Hudson’s loud telly… But something very important was missing. Something John was not yet ready to allow back in yet but could not live without. 

He walked up to the flat and right away dropped his things on the floor of his old bedroom, ignoring Sherlock's strong presence in the other room. His bedroom had remained very much the same, but it wasn’t familiar to him. He had never really spent much time in his own bed.

Sherlock knew the second John came in the door, of course. He had been waiting impatiently for him to arrive all day. "Do you need any help?" he offered as he leaned against the door frame for more support than he would ever admit.

"No. It's just... strange, being back. I'm just a bit overwhelmed," John admitted quietly and reached into his pocket to pull out his medication. "I haven't been here since..."

"Since I jumped," Sherlock finished for him. Lestrade had always called it 'the fall' but Sherlock would always think of it differently. He eyed John's medication bottle but knew better than to say anything. Maybe he could find them later and flush them, but right now, he wouldn't risk John getting angry and leaving him.

John shakily poured the pills into his hand and swallowed them dry. 

Sherlock forced himself to look away because he had lied when he said he felt no guilt. It was hard to look at John without feeling it. It wasn’t an emotion he was familiar with and it ate away at him.

"I'll be in the living room," Sherlock announced awkwardly, and turned around to disappear.

***

A few weeks later, the drugs were finally out of Sherlock's system and he was back to work without John by his side. Lestrade kept him busy with a string of cases just to keep him off the drugs and perhaps to also distract him from another, deeper issue at hand. Sherlock had wanted to ask John to help him with a few particularly complex cases, but in the end, he decided he didn’t want to risk the unsteady truce they seemed to have. And yet there was simply no replacement for him. 

Sherlock didn't spend very much time at the flat, partly because he was always on the job, but mostly because he had a hard time not staring at John longingly. As it was, he only came home to shower and to pass out in exhaustion on either the couch or his bed and one time on the floor in the kitchen.

On this particular evening, he rushed up the stairs to the flat, flung the door open, and made a beeline for his bedroom. He opened his closet and began to fling his clothes out behind him in a frenzied search for something. This case wasn't the most interesting one he had been offered, but it required a lot of field work and Sherlock was excited to put his acting skills to use. But he needed the perfect outfit first.

John heard the commotion and padded barefoot to Sherlock's bedroom to peer in through the doorway, a cup of tea in hand. His eyes were heavy and tired. "What is going on?" he asked.

"I have a date!" Sherlock exclaimed excitedly. He had been practicing all week on sweet talking his target and it had finally paid off. He stopped his search for the perfect outfit, put his hands on his hips, and frowned down at the piles of clothes. "I have nothing to wear," he muttered down to them.

John was silent for a moment. He couldn't have heard him right. "You... you have a... a date?" he asked, not even bothering to hide the wave of shock and fear and hurt and absolute raw jealousy that overcame him then. "What do you mean a date?"

"You know, when two people who like each other..." Sherlock mocked John until he looked up and saw the look on the other man's face. "Problem?"

John's heart sank in his chest. "Who is it?" he tried not to sound demanding. Who could Sherlock have possibly met and wanted to date? Was it a woman? A man? The woman? Did this mean he was over John?

"David Cobier. You have probably heard of him. He has been in the papers a lot lately. He's a business man… he owns a few high end restaurants," Sherlock told him. "At least, that is his day job which is why I need to get into his apartment and this is the easiest way."

If John hadn't been mad with jealousy at the time, he may have understood what was really going on. "What do you mean you have to get into his apartment?" he asked another stupid question, now completely unable to look at the man he was in love with while knowing that he had found someone who interested him even more than he did.

"For the case, of course. What's wrong?" Sherlock asked worriedly when he noticed how upset John was and when he could not read him. "The date is part of a case... I suppose I should have mentioned that sooner."

John didn't care. Sherlock was not a normal man. He was an a-sexual, highly-functioning sociopath and John alone was the only soul on the planet who could bring the sexual being out of him. At least, he used to be the only one. Case or not, it didn't matter. This man still held Sherlock's interest and John was terrified that he did mean to lead him on or even more. 

The worst part of it was that John knew he no longer had any right to keep Sherlock to himself. "Nothing. Just wear a condom," he barked at him before he stormed heavily out of the room. 

Sherlock frowned and was about to go after him when he stopped himself. Instead, he slipped on a pair of dark designer jeans and a tight pale blue button down shirt. "I'll be out late," he yelled.

When Sherlock didn't say anything about wearing or not wearing a condom, John felt himself withdrawing into himself. In the kitchen, he slumped against the wall, and when he heard the door close, he slid down the wall until he collapsed on the floor and buried his face in his hands.

***

John jumped awake when he finally heard Sherlock come through the door and hang up his coat early the next morning. He had finally fallen asleep after being up all night waiting for his flat mate to come home. Laptop humming in his lap, he opened his eyes and took in the disheveled sight of Sherlock in front of him. His buttons on his shirt were mismatched, evidence of being hastily put back on.

And then John did something that he would only allow himself to do if he were as out of his mind with exhaustion and pain as he was. He stood up, stomped over to Sherlock, and slapped him. Then, before the other man could react, he stormed off.

Sherlock stood frozen in surprise for a moment before he chased after him. He grabbed John's arm and spun him around to pin him against the nearest wall. "It's not fair, John! It's not fair!" he screamed at him.

John, reacting on a primal level at the unexpected physical contact, thrashed against him and shoved him hard. "You sleep around and then shove it in my face! That isn't fair! You're the one not being fair!" he screamed childishly.

"You lived with another man and slept around him! You can't judge me when you’re the biggest whore in London… and a drug addict!" Sherlock yelled as he shoved John against the wall harder, using his body as a blockade. "How many was it then? How many boring people did you fuck before I came back?"

John felt the tears flowing now. It always surprised John just now strong Sherlock could be, though he knew he would still be stronger if he just had the willpower to really push him away. It was hearing Sherlock admit it that made John finally lose control and suddenly desperate to hurt Sherlock the same way he was hurting right now. "I lost count," he snarled sarcastically. Five. It had been five. "Some of them I didn't even see their face!"

Sherlock pushed John away from him and turned his back to prevent himself from doing something he would regret. He was breathing hard as he ran a shaky hand through his curls. 

John slumped against the wall when Sherlock let go of him, feeling defeated. "Was he better than me?" he asked through his own ragged breathing.

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock hissed. He leaned his forehead against the wall and banged it a few times to clear his thoughts.

John felt his shaking hands fist tightly. "Go to him, then. He seems to make you very happy.”

"I couldn't get aroused," Sherlock admitted. "I wanted to just to see if I could, but I couldn't."

John didn't think it mattered. Sherlock had tried. He had wanted to. "What else is new?" he insulted him.

Sherlock laughed harshly at that. "Yes, well, at least you don't have to worry about that now. You can go off and whore yourself out to anyone and know that the freak will be at home waiting on you no matter what!" 

“You ruined my life, Sherlock! Twice!" John shouted back at him.

"Your life was already ruined and for what?! For me! You survived a war but you couldn't survive me, could you!?" Sherlock finally lost his temper.

John didn't expect it. The punch in the mouth delivered by Sherlock then threw him back onto the floor where he hit his head and was momentarily stunned by the pain. When John sat up, blood was spilling from his busted lip.

Sherlock did regret it the moment his fist touched John but he knew it was too late to take it back now. He blinked at the sight of the blood. "I didn't mean…"

John angrily wiped at his mouth and felt his eyes stinging again. He didn’t want to hear Sherlock apologize. He stared down at the blood on his fingers as if he were lost in it. 

Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of John but didn't dare touch him. He knew the resulting reaction would not be a good one. "John, I'm so sorry."

John shook his head and focused anywhere but into Sherlock’s piercing eyes. "No, you’re not. I don't want to see you again," he told him. He wished then that he had just killed himself all those times when he had the chance. Then he never would have had to watch the resurrection of Sherlock Holmes and had his heart broken.

"Don't say that," Sherlock said in a panicked voice. He reached out to grip John's shoulders. "Don't send me away... I cannot be apart from you... I cannot live without you."

John reacted violently when he felt Sherlock's hands touch him. "So help me, Sherlock, if you touch me again, I'm going to fucking break your nose," he warned him dangerously. "And don't you dare tell me that! It's over!"

"Nononononononononono, John," Sherlock begged, stubbornly not letting go of John. "Please, I'll do anything, anything."

"Do not touch me!" John screamed, throwing Sherlock off of him as roughly as he could. His split lip throbbed with pain as he spoke. "If you wanted me back, you would not try to fuck someone else!"

"I wasn't going to sleep with him! It was just for the case!" Sherlock froze.

John glared. "You said you wanted to. You said you tried. This was a bad idea, moving back in here, I should never have done it! And before you call me a whore again, I haven't had sex since you came back from the dead!" It’s true and it’s also none of Sherlock’s business anyway, John added to himself.

Sherlock didn't know what else to do or say. Nothing seemed to be working. So he decided to try something different. "If you go, I won't be here when you decide to come back," he tried to threaten, but his tone lacked promise.

John leaned against the wall and sniffed. "A second ago you were telling me you cannot live without me. I can't take any more roller coasters right now. Don't lie to me. I'm tired of lies," he told him, the taste of his blood bitter in his mouth.

Sherlock put his head in his hands. "I'll say whatever I have to too ensure you don't leave me," he mumbled though his palms.

"I've already left you. Do you not know that, Sherlock? Or do you think we are still in a relationship just because I moved in with you?" John accused, though he was genuinely not sure.  
Sherlock wished he was on the couch so he could just turn his back to John and go into his mind palace and forget about everything else. Instead, he was sitting on the living room floor with his best friend bleeding in front of him. His hands moved to his face until they were clenching at his hair in frustration." I thought one day we could work it out," he admitted.

John wiped his lip again. They have hurt each other so much. Was it possible to go back? He said nothing as he toyed nervously with the box in his pocket and finally pulled it out. "Lestrade found this. On your crime scene. I never understood why you had to let me watch you do it," he sniffed resentfully. "He found this near your body and gave it to me. I knew it had nothing to do with you or... or us, but I kept it in my pocket this whole time."

Sherlock's jaw clenched when he saw the black velvet box that he had carried around in his pocket for weeks before he and Moriarty walked onto that roof. "I bought it before... I was going to ask you..." Sherlock was unable to finish his sentence and looked nervously down at the floor. "I had Mycroft change my will when Moriarty was set free... you should have taken the money, John. Why didn't you?" he asked. He had wanted to make sure John was taken care of for life but he hadn't touched a cent of it.

John felt the tears fall again when Sherlock told him it had been his to give. He was expecting Sherlock to say something offensive about John being overly sentimental and also that he’d never seen the box with the wedding band in it before in his life and, of course, joke that John was a thief for stealing it off the pavement. 

Suddenly, John looked down at the box like it held all the answers. "Ask me what?"

"You know what... don't make me say it," Sherlock pleaded softly.

"You were going to ask me to marry you?" John asked disbelievingly.

"Why is that so hard to believe? We were in a functioning relationship and we lived together. I thought that's what people did," Sherlock explained. "I know I never said it properly but you had to have known… you have to know how I feel about you."

"I..." John stuttered, so overcome with emotion then that before he knew what he was doing, he threw himself at Sherlock and wrapped his arms around him.

Sherlock arms rose up to hug John back just as tightly as he let out a shaky sigh of relief. John practically crawled into his lap, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, his hair, anything he could as he took in a deep, ragged breath of his own.

"I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I keep hurting you over and over again. I can't seem to do right by you," Sherlock confessed into John's shoulder.

John leaned his forehead against Sherlock's and clung to him tightly. "We've hurt each other," he admitted softly. "I'm afraid of letting you back in and having you disappear again," he finally admitted.

Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed John in. "I won't do that again, at least not intentionally," he promised what he could because he simply didn’t know what the future would bring.

John pulled back to grab Sherlock's face in his hands. "You have to promise me that you will tell me if you're in trouble again. You won't be protecting me by keeping me in the dark," he demanded, his face wet with tears. "Please, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded shakily. "I promise... don't cry John," he begged, reaching up to wipe the moisture off his friend’s face. 

To stop Sherlock from focusing on his tears, John did something he had wanted to do desperately since the last time so long ago and he kissed him hard. Sherlock moaned and kissed him back, his hands cupping the back of John's neck to deepen it until he tasted his warm blood in his mouth and for the first time since returning to London, felt like he was finally home again.

John threaded his fingers in his lover's dark curls and broke the kiss only to whisper, "I love you," into his mouth before he was kissing him again.

Sherlock pulled John back to look him in the eye. "No take backs this time," he said seriously.

"I never took it back. I fucking love you," John insisted, not allowing Sherlock to pull back too far. "Now take me to bed before I burst," he demanded.

"I want to see to your lip first," Sherlock fussed, feeling guilty.

John refused. It was so like Sherlock to worry over a little bloody lip than to take him to bed when he was throwing himself at him. "It's fine. I've had worse," he dismissed. "Please forget it."

"Maybe we won't make it to the bed," Sherlock suggested before he suddenly had John on his back on the floor and was smiling down at him wickedly.

John pulled Sherlock down and further on top of him. "I don't care. I need you," he demanded, attacking him in a kiss and trying desperately to tear the other man’s clothes off.

Sherlock sat back just enough to shrug his own shirt all the way off but then got distracted by John's neck and began to obsessively lay kisses on that particularly smooth expanse of skin.

John was far too impatient for foreplay and his hands roughly slid up Sherlock’s beautifully lean chest. "I need you now," he warned him, his voice thick with lust. He spread his legs wantonly but arched his neck to give Sherlock more skin anyway.

"I want to take my time," Sherlock told him teasingly, softly biting his throat.

John slid his hand farther down to cup his lover's groin and unzip him hastily. "Sherlock... you will have plenty of time to make love to me slowly, but it’s been years and I needyoutofuckme," he growled. He was embarrassingly close to tears.

"Okay, I have you," Sherlock soothed him immediately, but then suddenly paused like he couldn’t go any further. "This would be better with lube."

"I don't care about lube," John said quickly, his hands roaming all over Sherlock's body until he pulled out his lover’s half-hard cock and stroked him slowly until any protest arising from him was lost in a moan. John took his hand away only to slicken his palm with his own spit and return it back to Sherlock's cock wet and warm. "Get hard for me," he whispered.

Sherlock abruptly pushed John's hand away and slid down his body to take his cock into his mouth and distract him from the dry finger he pushed into him. John immediately cried out and bit his lip so hard that he tasted fresh blood and had to grip the wall to brace himself. His body accepted the single digit, so distracted by Sherlock’s mouth that he barely noticed.

Sherlock pushed another finger into him just as he swallowed him down. John felt a dull throb of pain through his body and his legs instinctively closed against the dry intrusion, but he slowly forced himself to relax and arch up into Sherlock's mouth as it subsided. "Now… do it now," he pleaded.

"Hold that thought," Sherlock promised, and before John could blink, he was gone.

John forced his shaking body to stand and throw off the rest of his clothes. He then walked naked to his own bedroom where he found Sherlock rummaging messily through drawers. He leaned against the door frame, still painfully hard and way too far away. He watched Sherlock with a smirk. "I didn't say I was ready to let you out of my sight," he teased.

Sherlock found a tube of lube in the bedside table. "Sorry," he said, dropping the lube on the bed and stalking back over to John. "I'll stay within your sight as long as you want me to," he promised, and his hands gripped John's hips to steer him towards the bed.

John stood as tall as he could to reach him and swayed on his toes. "Forever," he demanded between heated kisses. Once they were close enough to the bed, he suddenly shoved Sherlock backwards onto the bouncy mattress and quickly followed to land on top of him.

Sherlock laughed and he ran his hands up John's bare thighs. "Good. I'm all yours, do whatever you like with me."

Given that permission, John pushed Sherlock’s hands away and slid down his body to suck his cock into his mouth and moan around its length. He needed him hard. Sherlock gripped the sheets and tried not to thrust up into that wet, warm heaven and instead tangled his fingers roughly into John’s blonde hair.

When John finally felt Sherlock heavy in his mouth and tasted the bitterness of his precome, he pulled away with a sloppy pop. "You taste so good," he told him, his voice hoarse. Then he sat up, straddled Sherlock's hips, and messily poured lube onto his own fingers to impatiently fuck himself.

"Be careful," Sherlock panted.

"I don't want to be careful. I don't want you to be careful either," John insisted, thinking that Sherlock was far too protective and afraid when all he wanted was to be fucked so hard he would feel him inside of him for days.

Sherlock suddenly flipped John onto his back and leaned over him so fast that John didn’t even see it coming. "I won't hurt you," he argued, replacing John's fingers with his own to make sure he was properly and carefully stretched. "Don't ever ask me to hurt you, I do it enough as it is."

John's face contorted with the pleasure of Sherlock's long fingers inside of him and his body could not help but relax and open for more. "I dreamed of you so much after you were gone," he confessed as if he couldn't help himself. "I dreamt of this, of you alive and warm."

"Shhh," Sherlock hushed, and replaced his fingers with the head of his cock and slowly pushed into him.

John shut his eyes tightly and braced himself. It had been so long since he had anyone quite as large as Sherlock and he whimpered a bit as his hands fisted the sheets and his body tried to relax. Sherlock didn't stop until he was seated fully inside of John and he could feel himself throbbing against the tightness of his muscles. "Too much?" he asked as he laid kisses up John's chest to calm him.

"No, it's good... god, it's good..." John rambled helplessly. "Just... give me a minute..."

Sherlock felt his own self control waning and released a shaky sigh as he rested his forehead against John's and closed his eyes to keep himself from thrusting. John experimentally rolled his hips and clutched at Sherlock's back a little desperately. "Now,” he demanded suddenly.

John cried out when he felt the sudden loss of Sherlock followed immediately by a hard thrust deep inside of him. "Yes," he hissed, encouraging his lover. Sherlock responded with a growl and thrust again, this time harder and faster.

John was unable to control his volume and his nails raked down Sherlock's back so hard he knew he must be drawing blood. He emitted a very loud, unmanly whimper during a particularly rough trust that had his face redden immediately after.

Sherlock chuckled and kept up his brutal pace. "You like being like this...with your legs spread wide and me inside you."

John tried to meet Sherlock's thrusts with his own, and when he closed his eyes, he saw stars and tasted blood. "Fuck yes...." he whimpered again. "And you like having the control, you bastard," he managed to add shakily.

Sherlock smirked but admitted to nothing as he bent down to kiss John's neck. He knew he wouldn't last much longer so his hand reached between them to stroke John's cock. John arched his back and threaded his fingers into his lover’s messy hair and pulled. "God, right there! Fuck, right there!" he cried when his lover began to pound against his prostate. "God, Sherlock!" he gasped.

Sherlock kept going, keeping at the angle that made John tighten up around him. "So beautiful," he praised him. "Mine."

John was far too gone to do anything but quickly come undone. "I'm gonna come, Sherlock," he managed to whimper before he spasmed with orgasm and felt Sherlock follow him a moment later.

Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John's shoulder as he recovered. "I don't want you to do that with other people even if you may need it more than I do. Does that make me selfish?" he asked quietly after a few minutes of shared breathing. He gently pulled out of John with a groan. 

"No... it isn’t selfish," John managed to answer, but his eyes were already closing.

"Get some rest," Sherlock told him as he ran his hand up and down John's back.

John wiped away all evidence of tears and knocked Sherlock onto his back, covering his body with his own and trapping him. "I'm going to keep you here with me. So you can't leave when I'm asleep and go experiment," he mumbled sleepily.

Sherlock chuckled at that. "I'm not going anywhere. I haven't gotten the chance to watch you fall asleep in years."

John settled more comfortably on top of Sherlock. "I missed you so much that that’s not even creepy. Don't ever leave me again, or I swear I will kill you myself," he threatened seriously.

"I won't. I promise, I won't," Sherlock reassured. "I've learned I can't live without you, John Watson."

John squeezed him tighter. "You were stupid to think I'd believe you were fake," he mumbled, half asleep. “I always knew the truth.”

"I knew you did. That's why you had to see me jump," Sherlock told him quietly.

John shook his head sadly. "There was no reason for me to see you jump.”

"Sleep, John... I'm not going anywhere."

John reluctantly untangled himself from Sherlock just long enough to take the box with the ring out of his discarded pant pocket. "Here," he whispered, giving it back to Sherlock. "Give it back to me when you're ready."

Sherlock took the box hesitantly. He wanted to say he was ready now. "I'll give it back to you soon," he said instead.

John smiled and lay back down on top of Sherlock. 

"When you're ready.”


End file.
